


The Lazarus Strain

by nymja



Category: Biohazard | Resident Evil (Gameverse), Resident Evil - All Media Types
Genre: Action/Adventure, F/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2014-04-07
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:34:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 23,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006040
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nymja/pseuds/nymja
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arresting a deceased marine for the theft of viral research leads to dangerous complications for Sherry Birkin and her self-invited, overprotective partner. Especially when said research is the key component to a deadly resurrection, and a mysterious organization known only as "The Family" is after her blood.Trapped in the Altai Mountains, it's up to Sherry and Jake to keep a dead man alive or face serious consequences.</p><p>Currently on hiatus, but not abandoned!!</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: An Offer (He Couldn't Refuse)

**Author's Note:**

> This fic is adapted from a Billy/Rebecca fic I started a million years ago and later scrapped, so if this first chapter seems familiar I apologize. Heavy focus on Sherry, with Sherry/Jake and Billy/Rebecca as the main pairings. Leon, Ada, Helena, Hunnigan, Chris, The Merchant, and Jill will also be featured with some side pairings thrown in for fun. I aimed for plot with romance as opposed to romance with plot, and I plead artistic license for any military or genetic procedure I will inevitably screw up. Enjoy!

THE PANAMA CANAL.  
PANAMA.  
16 JULY 2011.

Sweat made the shirt cling to nearly every surface of his torso, his back releasing slowly from the chair as he stood. It wasn’t the first time he had come to Central America and its overly warm climate, but it was the first time he had visited in the middle of July. And as a bead of sweat dropped from his forehead and rolled to the underside of his chin, he was finding that he wasn’t in a hurry to repeat the experience. In fact, his mind was beginning to remember his latest outpost in the remotes of Edonia with heart-warming fondness. Never a good sign. Edonia, he believed quite firmly, was where a man went to die, frostbitten and alone and forgotten.

That had almost been the case, actually.

The ferry he was on rocked to a slow stop. The trip had been miserable, as the last ride out was one hosted by a touring company. Which meant the ride was overpopulated with tourists. A blender of foreign languages and camera clicks permeated the air almost as certainly as the smell of his sweat. Three times since boarding he had been asked to take pictures of harangued, overtired couples and their over exuberant children. The fourth family had seen his reaction to the third family and wisely asked the fat man in the corner wearing a loud Hawaiian print shirt to snap a Polaroid instead.

Whoever coined this situation as ‘fun’ needed their head examined. Or removed.

“Welcome to the Panama Canal, the man-made natural wonder-!” He snorted. Man-made and natural did not belong in the same category. He tuned out the sound system as the welcome was repeated in rapid Spanish, then rapid French, and finally rapid what he assumed was Japanese.

Tourists.

Miserably he wiped the back of his hand across the flat of his forehead. Fucking tourists.

Time to get off the damn boat.

The pier was crowded, swarmed with an army of tourists, shippers, and merchants. The port was a hybrid of industry and commercialism- a towering, behemoth of a shipping frigate was docked next to the brightly painted _PANAMA ADVENTURES!_ ferry and neither looked out of place. Children ran around playing tag next to greasy dock workers, soccer moms fussed in their purses next to loud, swearing foremen with clipboards. Hole in the wall bars with shattered windows were nestled cozily next to booths selling sunglasses and freshly squeezed lemonade. It was a clusterfuck.

It was a place to get lost.

His left hand tightened around the handle of his sweat-soaked leather briefcase, and he moved his considerable bulk through the masses. Thankfully, when a man was in service in his particular line of work as long as he was, the crowds tended to part. His expensive, Italian business loafers were almost immediately coated in dirt, mud, and whatever other grime the canal had to offer. They matched the now sweat-ruined Armani suit perfectly. Fucking fantastic.

He walked down the stretch of the docks for a few minutes before his eyes rested on a bar sign. The establishment didn’t look like anything special. Corrugated metal for a roof and sides, the edges of which showed hints of rusting. A heavy door, with a small window at the top of it and what looked like the remnants of buckshot near the handle. Another piece of shit dive, or at least a bar that gave the appearance of one. Making a building look like something out of a B Western was one of the fastest ways to convince the tourist families that another place might be more hospitable towards the samplers of the ‘local fare’. It was, cheekily enough, called The Dancing Rooster.

He lifted his free hand to his face and nudged a side button on his watch with his chin. The wristwatch illuminated purple, lights dancing before a 3-D display popped up. A miniature version of the building in front of him hovered over his watch’s platform. Perfect. For some reason, he thought tracking down this particular mercenary would have been a bigger challenge.

He tugged down again on his tie, already loose, and walked in. The door opened and shut with a heavy, ominous boom. As his eyes adjusted to the lighting, he was quickly able to discern that the book didn’t match the cover. With plush area carpets, antique sitting chairs, and what looked to be an expensive collection of brandy bottles behind the counter- the dive bar on the inside made the impression of an old Gentleman’s Hunting Club, the sort of place where rich men smoked Cuban cigars, hid from their trophy wives, and compared their millions in bellied laughter.

His entrance made several heads turn towards the door, then down again. If the rumors of the place were true, the occupants of the bar knew how to assess a person quickly, and then equally as fast return to their own business.

After all, The Dancing Rooster was the biggest mercenary bar in Central America.

He did feel a little disheartened when he noticed none of the occupants- all dressed less expensively and more suitably for the weather than him- went to check their weapons. Apparently he didn’t cut as much of an imposing figure in a pit-stained Armani dress shirt and muddy slacks as he was hoping for. He slid his aviator sunglasses to the top of his head and walked to the bar.

There were three occupants positioned next to the barkeep. One he immediately identified as Not It due to the enormous bald spot conquering the few resisting strands of snow-white comb-over. Too old. His contact was situated somewhere in his thirties. ‘He’ also eliminated the other customer- a woman solidly into her forties and slamming shots of tequila like a frat boy at his first mixer.

That left occupant number three. He took a second to evaluate the man’s back before sitting next to him. He immediately stood apart from the others in that he was wearing a high-collared, long-sleeved shirt—which was a thin fabric but still an unusual choice for the temperature. Not that he, wearer of the destroyed three-piece suit, could cast any stones in that department. His hair was longer than what he expected of an ex-service man, brushing the top of his shoulders. Though he sat comfortably nursing what looked like an Old Fashioned, there was a tenseness along his shoulders and back that portrayed he was ready to go for the gun resting in the holster on his side in a moment’s notice.

The wearer of ruined Armani set his briefcase on the counter before sitting next to him.

The bartender, a dark-looking woman covered in tattoos and piercings, rose an eyebrow at him.

“A Manhattan.”

A glass of straight rye whiskey was dumped in front of him.  _Cheap,_ room-temperature rye whiskey. He tried to restrain the outburst that was threatening to bubble up.

“Sorry,” his contact’s voice was smooth with a hint of gravel, “The owners aren’t favorable to strangers here. Suits even less.”

He turned to the speaker, “Enrico Marquez?”

His contact nodded. His eyes were a sharp brown, and he got the impression that Enrico was the sort of man who missed nothing.

He turned to the barkeep to give her a nasty scowl before he snapped open the clasps of his briefcase with startling efficiency. Even though none of the bar’s customers turned to look, he knew they were listening in. Briefcases meant missions. Missions meant money. Mercenaries, as a general rule, were fans of money.

“Then let’s get down to business before the charming staff offers me a Molotav.”

Enrico’s expression didn’t shift from a bland disinterest, though he knew it to be to the contrary. Otherwise the man wouldn’t have shown up for the job...interview. It had taken months of careful enticement, of thorough background research and expensive bribes, but the man in the ruined Armani was confident that he had…Enrico right where he wanted him.

“I understand that you have a background in this sort of…extraction?”

Enrico gave a sharp, curt nod. _Semper Fidelis_ didn’t leave a man that easily, Armani noted with humor.

“Here is our information regarding the case, and the outline perimeters of what your mission entails. A more thorough debriefing will occur pending your acceptance of the job and a formal disclosure contract, of course.”

Enrico grunted in affirmation, an eyebrow raising when Armani slid him a thin, non-descript manila folder, “Hard-copy?”

“Safer. We’ve had an unfortunate obstacle with our digital information being…compromised.”

Plus, Armani wanted the drama of black and white photographs. After years in the field, one took one’s pleasures where one could.

A flash of paranoia- or was it caution at this stage?- appeared in Enrico’s stare. “Doesn’t inspire a lot of trust.”

“Don’t get your panties in a twist, the matter has been dealt with to the standards of the DSO. I consider myself an overly-cautious man, and the DSO doesn’t run on the reputation of a few straggling fuck-ups.”

The tension in his expression didn’t falter, “You know my conditions to accepting a job?”

Armani waved a hand flippantly, “No personal information or background checks will be conducted on the acceptance of your position.” Mostly because they were conducted before the name ‘Enrico Marquez’ even blipped on the radar, “We have no use for your history, Marquez. Only your skills.” A lie. But a convincing one.

The tension eased slightly from his expression, and Enrico sent Armani a level stare before he turned his attention to the contents of the folder.

The first article was a glossy black and white photograph showing a bird’s-eye view of what appeared to be a traditional university- except said university was nestled firmly in snow-capped mountains with only one, narrow road leading downward.

 

“Research Base Gamma, or as it’s been dubbed by its staff, ‘Rocky’. Accessible only by helicopter,” Armani explained, the unspoken truth of its location clear: _Top priority, confidential._

“Stateside?”

Armani fought down the grin he so desperately wanted to show, “Russia. Exact location will be disclosed after a contract is finalized.”

Enrico nodded, a finger trailing down the narrow road, “Thought you said it was only accessed by helicopter?”

“A supply line, maintained by heavy guard and only used for emergency situations,” Armani prayed to whatever god that could find him as he took a sip of the whiskey. It tasted like cat piss, but he was still breathing so the optimist in him concluded it wasn’t poisoned.

“Anything underground?”

“Exact details will be disclosed after an official contract.”

Enrico snorted, flipping it over. The next article was what appeared to be a logbook: dates, ID numbers, but no names.

“Our current research staff. As you can see, it’s exclusive.”

Six ID numbers. One of which was highlighted in acid yellow.

“And this one?”

“Our compromised head of research,” Armani muttered.

“Compromised how?”

“A bullet in the back of the head.”

The slightest twitch in the corner of Enrico’s mouth was the only tell he gave as he flipped to another logbook. The same fare greeted him: dates, ID numbers, but no names. This logbook, however, spread four pages. “And this?”

“Support staff.”

“Awful big.”

“We value our independence.”

_Security. Lots and lots of security._

Enrico turned the logbook over. Underneath another file rested, detailing the security protocol, the shift rotations, and research lab hours of operation.

“That’s it?” Enrico stated in disbelief at the minimal information.

“I’m not at liberty to disclose anything else until we have a formalized contract.”

Enrico shook his head, “No one takes a job with this little intel.”

Armani grit his teeth and tossed back the remaining contents of his cat piss, “Then I’ll be straight with you. This is a DSO-funded operation, but strictly off the DSO books. Research Gamma is conducting experiments in a sensitive and highly classified area of national defense. Six months ago, someone on the inside murdered our head researcher and stole her data. Our head researcher was brilliant, born for the think tank, but she was also trained by specialist military companies in self-defense, firearms, security systems, and demolitions. So whoever this agent is, they know what they’re doing to get the drop on her. Which means they’re associated with someone organized. The United States government can’t allow that data to go public, or we risk not only international disaster but possibly war.”

Enrico shook his head, “So what do you want with me?”

“We need someone off our books to go to Russia, conduct an investigation, and find the son of a bitch.” Armani’s mouth twisted into a scowl, “Using any means necessary. Again, there’s potential for war with thousands if not millions of casualties.”

His contact sighed, rolling his shoulders. Armani noticed a peak of black ink stretched across the skin of his neck, almost entirely hidden by the collar of his shirt. Smart, but not smart enough. “What’s the life expectancy for someone who takes the job?”

Honesty is the best policy, “Minimum.”

Enrico groaned, “And the pay?”

Now Armani let that grin finally show, “Well worth your while, I promise.”

“I want at least twenty million. American.”

Armani snorted, “You’ll be far more interested in my counter-offer, if you accept.”

Enrico stared at him with distrust, taking another slow drink of his Old Fashioned. “Do I get tech support?”

“The best,” Armani cracked his back, “And option for a protective detail.”

Enrico actually laughed at that, a dark chuckle that made the hairs on the back of Armani’s neck stand up straight, “Right. Protective detail, not a babysitter.”

“That’s right. Do you accept?”

A long silence stretched, and it seemed as if the entire bar had gone silent except for the slow, repetitive noise of the fans on the ceiling. “I guess I have nothing better to do.”

Armani nodded, again trying not to show the smugness he was desperately feeling, as he pulled out another document from his briefcase and slid it to him, “Our standard disclosure.”

Enrico took the contract and read through it. Armani knew it was basic information for a mercenary of Marquez’s caliber: Top Secret confidentiality and discretion, maiming or death not the responsibility of the DSO, and of course, the fact that while Marquez would have access to all of the DSO’s resources and staff, if he were caught the DSO would deny any affiliation.

He signed.

Armani smiled, knowing what came next would cement whether or not their intel into this mercenary was correct, “Welcome aboard, here’s a more thorough profile on our late head researcher.”

He slid another, thicker manila file to him. Enrico took it and opened it with the same smooth, detached countenance.

Then everything about him- from his breathing, to his movement, to even his heartbeat, seemed to freeze in an instant as he took in the profile of Rocky’s head researcher.   _Hell yes,_ Armani thought, _We got you now, don’t we?_

“What the hell is this?” Enrico spat, a cold fury overtaking him as he slammed the manila folder back on the counter.

“Our intel.”

“Bullshit!” He turned and glared, a hand going for his gun, “How do you know about her?”

Armani kept his posture relaxed, his hands folded together neatly, “As you’ve been briefed, that is our late head of research at our facility in Russia.”

“You’re lying.”

“No, I’m not. Read the file, and the one underneath it. We’ll make the next point of contact within forty-eight hours. Get your affairs in order.” Armani shut his briefcase with the finality of a man shutting a casket. He stood, ignoring the palpable rage that radiated from the man beside him and clapped a hand on his shoulder, leaning down by his ear. “We look forward to working with you against this threat, _Mr. Marquez_.”

With that, Armani withdrew and took a leisurely walk towards The Dancing Rooster’s exit. He was in no damn hurry to go back out into the heat.

 

After Armani left The Dancing Rooster, Enrico grabbed the glass he was drinking from and hurled it against the wall with all his strength. It shattered, and no one looked up from their own affairs as shards of glass crashed down to the floor. He slumped on his stool, turning the file over with a beaten, destroyed expression as two profiles slid from the folder:

 ** _Chambers, Rebecca S._** _PhD(s): Molecular Biology, Organic Chemistry, Genetics. F. Age 29. Head of Research at DSO Research Facility Gamma._  
Former Affiliations: S.T.A.R.S., Bravo. Discharged with honor and distinction.  
Deceased. 

And underneath it:

**_Coen, William F._ ** _Lieutenant, United States Marine Corps. M. Age 26.  Dishonorably discharged. Court-martialed. Further information classified. Deceased._

The bartender wordlessly passed Enrico Marquez another Old Fashioned, which he finished in a long, steady drink.


	2. Debriefed

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherry receives a special assignment from Ingrid Hunnigan.

WASHINGTON D.C.  
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
17 MARCH 2009

 _He had been staring at her through the thick, plexiglass window for at least a few minutes now. And it made him feel like a creep. He_ was _a creep. It was hard not to be when the main job in this internship was to watch her vitals fluctuate after she took her vitamins. Four times a day, every day. And it felt wrong. Like stalking. Federally- funded stalking._

_But today, there was a rumor going around the research facility that could change a few things. Someone had finally put an end to Albert Wesker, meaning that the princess might be freed from her tower…_

_He winced at his own mental dialogue. All this time in the lab was turning his brain into mush. Still, there were worse government internships out there. His roommate, Freddy, was stuck gathering soil samples for the DNR for hours on end. Watching Sherry Birkin was a hell of a lot better than watching dirt._

_Beyond the plexiglass window, Sherry looked up from a book she was reading. Straight at him. Damn, how long had he been staring again?_

_She waved and gave a small smile, the PA system echoing a tinny version of her voice in the observation room where he sat, “Hi Peter.”_

_He had to have been blushing up to the tops of his ears, but he hesitantly pushed the comm channel’s “talk” button, “H-hey Sherry.” He had to say something. Anything. “What are you reading?” Smooth. Because he hadn’t asked her that fifty times already._

_“Same as yesterday,” her smile morphed into an amused grin. They repeated this conversation at least four times a week. Asking Sherry ‘What’s new?’ or ‘How was your day?’ almost seemed cruel. At least Peter was getting paid to sit in a white room all day._

_Still, in order to have a conversation, he had to provide something new. He liked talking to Sherry, even if he was miserable at it. Peter was brilliant: the star of his genetics program at Ivy University, specifically requested for a highly competitive internship program with the top officials of the US government. But he couldn’t string two sentences together around the pretty blonde._

_Not even when they were separated by twenty feet, two armed guards, and a liberal amount of plexiglass. Shit. He was hopeless._

_“Your cell count looks good today.” God damn it. Why couldn’t he just. Speak normal._

_“…Thanks.” Her normally cheerful voice had a bit of a resigned edge to it as she started to turn back to her book._

_He looked down, appropriately mollified until an idea occurred to him. Peter knew he wasn’t supposed to tell her. Not yet, not until his supervisors had cleared the intel with Simmons and the other big wigs. But he was tired of seeing her sitting on her bed, alone and sad, and he hated that he was part of what made her stay there. And. And he kind of wanted to be the cool guy, for once._

_So what the hell, Peter pushed the talk button on the speaker system, “They, uh…They got him I guess.”_

_Sherry looked up from what she was reading- Peter snuck a peek and saw_ Animal Farm _printed along its creased spine, he’d have to get a copy from the library when he got off work- and frowned in confusion, “Sorry?”_

_He cleared his throat and pushed up his glasses with the heel of his hand. As much as he…admired her, having her undivided attention was absolutely nerve-wracking, “Wesker!” Sherry winced. Shit, he kind of yelled that into the microphone, “Sorry, Wesker. The BSAA killed him in Africa-“  the rest of his explanation fell off as he stared at her._

_Sherry Birkin had gone very, very still. And her face paled as the grip on her book went limp,_ Animal Farm _toppling over onto the sterilized floor of her bedroom. It was a testament to Peter’s priorities that he instantly grew concerned about her not finding her place again when she picked it back up._

 _Silence hung between them, two armed guards, twenty feet, and a liberal amount of plexiglass. Peter bit down on his lower lip, tugging on the collar of his lab coat. Maybe it had been a bad idea to tell her? She looked upset. There was a rumor that Sherry had known Wesker from_ before, _but rumors around this place flew faster than monkeys throwing shit so-_

_“Does that mean…” Sherry’s voice was so quiet it was almost smothered by the sounds of the machines measuring her heart rate and brain waves._

_Peter gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile, “Yeah. I think you might be getting out of here soon.”_

_He was_ so _going to be on beaker-cleaning-bitch duty for the next six months of the internship, but it was worth it to see actual joy in Sherry’s expression for the first time._

 

 **CHAPTER ONE: DEBRIEFED**  
WASHINGTON D.C.  
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
21 DECEMBER 2013

 

“ _OH NO! The fight’s out!-_ “

Her fist connected against the solar plexus.

 _“And I’m about to punch your LIGHT’S OUT-_ “

An exhale and her leg swung into the man’s ribs with a quick snap-kick.

_“Get the fuck back, guard your grill-“_

She followed the kick’s momentum for a full turn. A backswing with her arm, and her elbow connected with the bridge of his nose.

_“There’s something wrong, we can’t stand still-“_

A quick grunt of triumph and she turned, swinging her leg up for another attack. The heel of her sneakered foot connected mercilessly with the top of the man’s head on its descent.

_“-I’ve been drinking and busting two-”_

Her breathing was starting to come in pants as she swung out her fists in quick, boxer’s jabs. Her workout shirt sported sweat stains as the rubber dummy received the ultimate beating of his rubber dummy life.

 _“-and I’ve been thinking of busting you-_ “

And then someone grabbed her shoulder from behind.

_“-upside your motherfucking forehead!”_

Instinctually, Sherry reached over and grabbed the man’s wrist, using the momentum against her assailant and ducking low. The man was lifted slightly and then vaulted over her shoulder as she made the best of her low center of gravity. His hand snagged around the chord of her earbuds-

 _“And if your friends jump in, OH GURL-_ “

-and ripped them out of her ears before he tucked into a roll and stood up effortlessly, iPod dangling from his outstretched hand.

Sherry blinked as she processed what had just happened. Across from her stood a man gracefully stepping out of his thirties. Dressed in jeans, a navy t-shirt, and a black leather jacket, he radiated a casual air of “don’t screw with me”. Blond hair fell into his eyes as he stared at the earbuds in confusion.

Her eyes widened, as she stood, “Leon! I’m sorry I didn’t mean to-“

He brushed her off with what passed for a smile on him- a faint tug at the corner of his mouth, “My mistake. Should know better than to sneak up on an agent.”

…Even though she had been an agent for over two years, Sherry still felt a definite glow of pride hearing it being acknowledged by one of the two people she held in unconditional respect.

She took the interruption to run the back of her hand along her forehead, wiping off the sweat from her workout, “What are you doing here?”

Leon didn’t answer, instead staring down at the innocent looking earbuds like they were new Los Plagas samples, “What the hell is this?”

 _“MOVE, BITCH! GET OUT THE WAY-_ “

Sherry could feel the hot flash of red burn up from her neck to the base of her ears, “Luda.”

“What?”

_“GET OUT THE WAY, BITCH! GET OUT THE WAY!”_

“Ludacris. He raps.”

“Wraps what?”

“Music.”

“This is music?”

She shrugged apologetically before reaching for the earbuds. Leon let them slide from his fingers without any resistance, “It helps me time my kicks.”

He sighed, shaking his head but the offended expression finally dropped from his face, “You’ve been working hard.”

Overworking, more like it. In the last six months, the repercussions of Lanshiang had been dire for national security. Between the outbreak at Tall Oaks, the assassination of President Benford, and the revelation of Simmons’ dark side, nearly every branch of government force had been upended, overturned, and shaken more than a pair of maracas. The C-virus had been stopped before it could go global, but it still managed to get a few punches in. Trust was scarce these days, and Simmons had destroyed not only the NSA, but the confidence and cooperation the agencies used to have in each other. USSS, CIA, DSO, NSA, BSAA, FBI, or any other acronym-- it didn’t matter. Tension was thick and those working in FOS had their work cut out for them.

Sherry looked down as she wrapped her earbuds’ chord around her iPod, stowing it in the pocket of her worn gym sweatshirt; stifling the request for some bitches to presumably get out of the way, “Just trying to make a difference.”

Her gaze was intent on the floor, so she missed the frown of concern growing in the corners of Leon’s mouth, “You’ve already made plenty.”

“Not really,” Sherry glanced back up to Leon, “Not like you or Claire.”

His stare, which Sherry was beginning to believe could puncture steel, bore into her before he spoke again, “…how is she?”

The younger agent smiled, glad that in his own reservedway, Leon had let her make her own decision. Sherry knew the older DSO agent would understand the need to be out in the field more than anyone, even Claire. After seeing what had happened in China, Sherry knew it would be impossible for her to ever have a desk job.  There were monsters out there, and she had to do what she could to save the world from B.O.W.s. She’d been spared their fate for a reason.

_Super girl._

The nickname popped up in her brain from time to time, like a habit she couldn’t kick.

“Claire’s fine, but busy. All her e-mails come from the TerraSave server,” Sherry made a big show of rolling her eyes, “And she tells me to take a vacation.”

Leon smirked. “Married to the job. Can’t imagine what that’s like.”

Sherry grinned, “Me either.”

He lifted up his arm, pulling his jacket sleeve far enough back to reveal a wristwatch, “Debriefing’s in twenty.”

She felt a knot of dread sink in her stomach, “Sorry. Must have lost track of time.”

Leon gave that titanium stare again, before jerking his chin in the direction of the DSO’s locker rooms, “I’ll wait.”

Sherry grabbed her gym bag off the floor and jogged to go change out of her sweats. It wouldn’t look good to be late to the first meeting with the new Chief Security Advisor.

\--

The locker shut quietly as Sherry made quick work of the buttons on her shirt, tugging down on its tails after she was finished to straighten the crisp linen. It had been a while since it was required, but Sherry still knew how to line the creases, how to present herself in a formal meeting with a superior.

She bent over, folding her sweatshirt and moving to put it in her bag when a blinking blue light caught her attention. Sherry sighed, knowing it was her phone; the light was an indicator for a new message. Probably one of the fifty other agents or coordinators awaiting another report. That was the thing that never got mentioned in the movies: after the world was saved, the heroes had to file things in triplicate. Leon’s plane crash alone had accrued several million dollars’ worth of property damage, and for every civil suit that was resolved, three more sent out subpoenas.

Smoothing her short hair into something resembling order, Sherry exchanged her phone’s place in the bag for her gym clothes, flipping it open.

_1 MESSAGE  
JAKE M_

A small, soft smile graced her features at the familiar name. Since China, she hadn’t seen her former…protective charge. Too many external factors interfered: her work, his work, pending reports, pending court cases, training, restructuring the government, synthesizing his blood into a vaccine, distributing the vaccine…the list went on. And as much as she found herself missing the asshole, she was currently grounded from field work or leaving the country until Lanshiang was cleaned up and the government was tidy. Jake, not being an American citizen, had certainly gotten off easy with the pay cut. Imagining the mercenary up to his elbows in official statements did have its charms, however. If for no other reason than seeing Jake scowl a hole through them.

Despite everything, they were still able to stay connected. As pen pals.

Ignoring the fact that she had a debriefing in about ten minutes on the other side of the building, Sherry opened the message.

_Super girl. In New York. Here for three days…be nice to see you there._

Disappointment sunk like a rock in her stomach, and Sherry shut the phone without replying.

Debriefing first, figuring out Jake’s bullshit second.

\--

Five minutes later found Sherry and Leon sitting in the waiting room for the CSA’s office, the latter staring at her as he folded a leg to rest on the opposite knee.

“You okay?”

Sherry took a deep breath, straightening out her shirt again. This was a no-wrinkle meeting, “I’m fine.”

“You’re sure?”

“Just some bad news. Don’t worry about it.”

“If you say so.”

A buzz sounded from her pocket. Sherry quickly retrieved her phone from her waistcoat.

_1 MESSAGE  
JAKE M_

She hit open. Of course she hit open.

_You mad?_

Sherry sighed, shutting the phone closed. Yes, she was mad.

“Hot date?”

She snorted, sliding her finger over the screen to put her phone on silent, “No.”

“I’ll ask one more time, and then I’ll leave it alone. Everything alright?”

Sherry went to say it was, but reconsidered her answer. “It’s nothing I won’t be able to handle. Personal problems.”

Leon looked as if he were about to say something, but the secretary behind the desk pressed his ear piece to his head.

“Yes, yes. Of course.” The aide looked up from his computer screen, “She’ll see you now.”

Leon stood, rolling his shoulders, “Ready to face the dragon?”

If Sherry didn’t know the man next to her so well, she would have missed the flicker of humor in his expression as they walked into the office.

\--

“And as you’re no doubt aware, Agent Kennedy, while your…expedience in regards to the property damage forms on the charter plane incident has been noted, there are several discrepancies between the personal testimonies,” Ingrid Hunnigan placed a simple manila folder in front of her, then opened it to several paper-clipped bunches of files.

Beside her, Leon arched a brow, “Such as?”

Hunnigan looked out at him over the rims of her glasses, “Such as the circumstances surrounding the actual crash.”

“What was wrong with the report?”

“While yours and Agent Harper’s accounts align, it’s been noted that several passengers have testified to excessive use of force and, as a certain…” Hunnigan’s lips pursed as she turned over a bundle, “Mr. Gregory McCaulson stated, ‘The man flew us into buildings not even after five minutes of being behind the controls’.”

Leon looked as if he wanted to protest, thought better of it, and instead asked dryly, “So. Rewrite?”

A ghost of a smile flashed on the new CSA’s face, “Rewrite.”

Leon wordlessly slid the manila folder to him.

Before their return from Lanshiang, Sherry had never met with the shining star of the FOS, but from what she understood, Ingrid Hunnigan was a capable, dedicated woman. And the only woman fit for the promotion, seeing as a multitude of organizations were waiting for the other multitudes of organizations to screw up somewhere, so the incident of Tall Oaks and the President’s assassination could finally have a pinpointed source of blame. The CIA blamed the USSS, the USSS blamed the DOS, the FBI had it out for the BSAA- the finger pointing was endless. As the most elite unit of government’s forces, the head of the DOS held a considerable amount of power and influence.

But they didn’t need power. Too much power had gotten them into this situation. No, what the United States needed more than anything in this time of crisis was organization. Enter an efficient agent of the Field Operations Support, the only branch the others could tolerate. As little as Sherry knew about the political machinations of bureaucracy, even she could support Hunnigan’s promotion as a smart move.

If nothing else, the woman was brutally competent with paperwork. Her admonishment of Leon complete, Hunnigan turned to face her.

“Agent Birkin, you’ve completed the write-up of the Muller case?”

That dull, disappointed sensation was back again. “Yes, sir.”

Hunnigan nodded, “And Mr. Muller received the compensation he requested?”

All fifty dollars of it. Jake had been proud to inform her that he had spent it on a new jacket and a bottle of vodka, “Yes.”

The CSA gave a thoughtful hum, withdrawing another file and flipping through it with purpose. She stopped about ten pages in, “As I suspected. Agent Birkin, do you have a finalized proof of transaction?”

A receipt? “…no, sir.”

“Please see to it that one is drawn up and forwarded to Mr. Muller’s current location, with a copy being faxed to Accounts Payable.”

It was nice to know that Hunnigan was on their side.

“Yes, sir.”

“Now, the real reason I’ve called you in,” Hunnigan brushed the files to the side of her desk, folding her hands primly in its former place, “You’ll be pleased to know that you’ve both been cleared to return to active field work.”

Sherry’s heart skipped a few beats in excitement. She hadn’t even hoped there would be a possible end to the paperwork parade before the year ended.

“About time,” was all Leon offered, though Sherry knew it didn’t take psychic abilities to see he was just as relieved.

Hunnigan smiled, “I agree. Bio-terrorism doesn’t stop just because we’re up to our eyes in civil cases. Your files and reports have been reviewed by the action committee and international clearance has been returned. Access to service weapons has been made available.” She faced Sherry, and Sherry wished she didn’t see what looked like pity in the older woman’s eyes, “Simmons’ treason, if nothing else, exposed the liabilities of the chain of command and mission processing as they stood. I’m in the process of restructuring both to prevent further incidents like the one regarding Jakob Muller.”

Sherry closed her eyes, taking a deep and steadying breath. Simmons wasn’t her fault. She had been reminded, multiple times, that Simmons wasn’t her fault.

It still felt like it was her fault. Even now, it stung to be reminded of how close she had been to delivering the exact ingredient necessary for global bio-organic decimation. How close she had been to another, bigger Raccoon. How close she had been to endangering Jake, to forcing him to be locked up in the basement of some research facility for the rest of his life while they poked and prodded at him with syringes and scalpels-

Leon tensed beside her, making Hunnigan shift slightly in her seat.

Sherry kept her expression calm.

Hunnigan cleared her throat after allowing her point to sink in, “Agent Birkin, you will report directly to me and one other agent for all your future assignments.”

Another agent? Despite the lack of field experience, Sherry was still a fully-fledged member of the DSO. Whatever Simmons’ prior involvement with her was, she had earned her title just like anyone else. Making her accountable to another agent was akin to saying she needed a babysitter. “Sir?”

“I’m afraid the matter is not up for discussion. Agent Kennedy will be your secondary point of contact effective immediately.”

From Leon’s expression, it was clear this was new information for him as well, “Now wait, if it wasn’t for Sherry the vaccine-“

Hunnigan held up a hand, “For what it’s worth, I agree completely on matters of Agent Birkin’s merit,” Sherry was met with her brown, earnest stare, “You went above and beyond the perimeters of your assignment, Agent Birkin. Please don’t allow any other opinions to dissuade you of that.”

Numbly, Sherry nodded, “Then why-?”

Hunnigan gave a pained sigh that contrasted with her matter-of-fact personality, “To be blunt? Politics. Many outside of the DSO view your connection with Simmons as circumspect at best, incriminating at worst. The unfortunate downside to a top secret mission is the details will not be made accessible outside the higher levels of the FOS and DSO,” she rolled her shoulders back, sitting up straighter, “You will have to re-establish your reputation through successful missions before you can put Simmons behind you, where he belongs. I intend to help you with that,”

Hunnigan turned to Leon, “Agent Kennedy, you’re dismissed. I look forward to seeing you at the gala tomorrow.”

His face was fixed in a permanent scowl, a small comfort for her current situation. If nothing else, Leon was at least in her corner. Sherry knew that for a fact. He nodded to Hunnigan before briefly resting his hand on Sherry’s shoulder, “We’ll talk later.”

“Okay,” Sherry whispered, wishing she at least sounded more confident for a woman who ruined her career before it really began. He withdrew his hand and offered a morose looking smile before retreating.

Hunnigan watched the door until Leon walked through it, waiting to speak until it shut behind him.

“I have an assignment for you. Top secret and high priority.”

Sherry’s eyes went wide, “But you-“

“-just said that I intend to help you with Simmons. He was a, pardon my language, utter bastard and I hate to see good agents have their reputations sullied by scum.” The older woman continued sharply, “So let’s start by cleaning up one of his messes. I have every confidence that once you are returned to the field you’ll prove you’ve earned your position in the Department of Security Operations- not that you haven’t already.”

She had struck her nearly speechless, “Thank you.”

“Thank me after you’ve read the debriefing, Agent Birkin,” Hunnigan turned to her computer, eyes dashing across the screen faster than Sherry had believed humanly possible, “The details will be delivered to your personal files in forty-eight hours. You will have an additional seventy-two hours to put your affairs in order and prepare for international travel.”

She nodded. It felt good, to be given something to do. Something to accomplish. And as easily as changing from her sweats to her no-wrinkle linen shirt, Sherry resumed the role of an active government field agent. “Right. Expected mission duration?”

“Over six months.”

“Understood.”

A smile broke out on the stern woman’s face, making her appear almost a decade younger, “Good,” she paused, before seamlessly redirecting the conversation, “Have you been briefed on the security details for President Howe’s gala tomorrow evening?”

Sherry grimaced. The gala had been organized by the former Vice President, and meant to serve as both a fundraising campaign for the North American chapter of the BSAA as well as a silent commendation ceremony. Silent, as those who were being commended were all being commended for top secret missions that stopped the potential global outbreak of the C-virus. Officially, it was a fundraiser and memorial dinner for President Benford. Unofficially, it was meant to be Howe’s expression of thanks to those involved in Lanshiang and Tall Oaks.

It was going to be four hours of black-tie hell.

She and Leon were invited to represent the DSO on paper, and to be guests of honor off of it. Same with Chris, Helena…and Jake. Who obviously wasn’t coming, though he no doubt received several invitations. Two from her.

She’d have to reply to him, eventually. Especially since it looked like she was going off the grid.

“Yes, sir.”

“Very good. I trust I don’t need to stress the importance of polite sociability?”

Because all of the agencies would be represented at the gala. Because all of the agencies were currently at each other’s throats. Because Sherry secretly suspected Hunnigan had organized this on purpose to force mingling between them. And, as she understood now, to cement their reputations on a positive note.

“No, sir.”

“Thank you, Agent Birkin. That will be all.”

Sherry nodded politely at her dismissal, leaving the office and almost immediately checking her phone again.

4 MESSAGES  
JAKE M  
CLAIRE R (2)  
LEON K

…she’d check her phone later.

Right now, Sherry was in desperate need of a punching bag.

And probably more Ludacris.

And maybe a Long Island iced tea.

Whatever the specifics of her next assignment, Sherry had the steadfast knowledge that it would be a difficult one.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next up: A fancy, awful party. As well as what the deal is between Sherry and Jake


	3. Recognition

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A fancy dinner party full of bad memories.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> New Year's resolution: update faster. Also Jake is coming in soon, I swear!

 

WASHINGTON D.C.  
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
20 MARCH 2009

 _If the girl didn’t stop smiling he was going to be physically sick. It was one of those insufferable, ignorant expressions. Dimples. Wide eyes. A textbook image of naivety. And that’s what she was. The genetic lottery, kept safe and secure under the government’s dime, hoarding all that_ potential _yet giving no way to exercise it outside of the walls of the facility._

_Well, nearly no way._

_There was, perhaps, a slim margin of possibility available to him. The girl’s blood did little to enhance his work, but that insufferable optimism held options. She was obedient, after all. And so eager to contribute something, to prove her worth. He had dealt with such aspirations before, and they were always easily manipulated._

_His be-ringed fingers trailed along the desk as he stood, walking slowly so that he was standing in front of it. Physical proximity was important, but in small doses. Too much might be overwhelming. He leaned against the desk, crossing arms over his chest. Letting her initiate was also critical. It helped with the appearance of balanced power, an even playing field. Trust. The idea was laughable, but for someone of her…particular delusion, it was necessary to keep up that facsimile._

_Her smile waned. Disappointment, or hesitance. Good._

_“You…wanted to see me?”_

_His lips curled up into a smile. Paternal. He had practiced this persona many times. The persona that would let her maintain contact with the Redfield woman. That gave her copies of paperbacks. The persona that nurtured._

_“I did. How are you feeling today, Sherry?”_

_Calling her by her first name was important also. To the lab workers, she was Subject G-2. To her handlers, Ms. Birkin. He was the only one who called her by first name in the facility; it was a stipulation in the contract. Aside from that useless intern. He made a mental note to reprimand him later._

_“I’m fine.”_

_How…neutral. “Well, I don’t want to waste any of your time,” he suppressed the smirk, “I assume you’ve heard the news?”_

_There it was again. That nauseating emotion danced across her face: hope, “About Wesker?”_

_He gave a curt nod._

_“I…heard he was killed.”_

_“You heard correctly,” he forced his shoulders to relax. Appearing casual was important, “Which puts you in an interesting predicament.”_

_She kept her hands at her sides, though he could see her muscles tense, “It does?”_

_“As I’m sure you’re aware, we can’t allow for someone of your…position to be unsupervised.” The hope fled from her eyes. He took a moment to savor it before regretfully continuing, “However, with the threat Wesker posed eliminated, there is another option.”_

_Sherry’s face broke into a puzzled frown, “What do you mean?”_

_He took his glasses off, wiping them with the edge of his shirt in a rehearsed nonchalance, “How would you like to join the Department of Security Operations as a special agent, Sherry?”_

_Her heartbeat escalated. How pathetic. “A-an agent?”_

_“That’s right. Not unlike Mr. Kennedy.”_

_“Out of the research facility?”_

_He hummed in amusement, replacing his glasses, “Well, we hardly have uses for agents in the laboratory,” he gave it a moment to sink in, to allow the smell of bait to permeate the air… “If you’re uninterested, I’m sure we can negotiate for a prolonged stay here-“_

_“I’d love to!”_

_…and for the trap to swing closed. Such a precocious little mouse, “You understand the dangers of a field agent, Sherry?” He gave a perfect, worried frown, “I’d_ hate _for something to happen to you.”_

_Sherry squared her shoulders back, and her voice came out clear, “I understand. It’d…it’d really mean a lot, if you let me do this. To help people.”_

_It was insultingly easy. He took a step forward, resting his hand on her shoulder, “I think you’ll make for an excellent agent, Sherry.”_

_And there it was again. That cheerful, radiant smile. He was going to need a bucket, “You have no idea how much this means to me.”_

_But he did. He knew_ exactly _how much this meant to her. He let his hand linger for a moment too long before withdrawing, going to sit behind the desk. “You’ll report directly to me. And all your missions will be highly classified. Do you understand?”_

_“Yes, sir.”_

_Sir. He let the world roll around in his mind a few times._ Sir. _Yes, that would do nicely, “I look forward to working with you, Sherry. I know with our partnership, we’ll be able to accomplish great things against bio-terrorism.”_

_She kept smiling. Were her aspirations truly so limited? A monumental disappointment for the scion of the legendary Birkins, “Thank you.”_

_He gave a final, rehearsed smile, “Sadly, as much as I would like to use this time to catch-up, I believe you have a calisthenics exercise scheduled with the B Lab?”_

_Sherry nodded, and for a moment it looked as if she were going to embrace him. She restrained herself. He breathed a sigh of relief. Such…displays were necessary from time to time, but if they could be avoided, it was all for the better. A sharp pain hit his chest. Ada understood such boundaries._

_“Thank you again!” She said, turning to leave, excitement radiating from her._

_“The pleasure is all mine.”_

_The door swung closed. Simmons exhaled, the paternal aura extinguished and a colder, calculating expression overtaking his features as he pressed the call button. “Jennings?”_

“Yes?” _came the voice of a frantic, beleaguered lab assistant._

_“I believe it’s time we reassess the file on Muller…what was her first name again?”_

“Anna, sir?”

_“Ah yes. Let’s review those hospital records of hers one more time. I can’t help but feel as though we’ve overlooked an important detail.”_

**CHAPTER TWO: RECOGNITION**

WASHINGTON D.C.  
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
22 DECEMBER 2013

_“Bzzt, next!”_

Sherry sighed, offering another half-turn, “Really?”

Claire’s image on the computer screen gave an enthusiastic thumbs-down, “ _Really. It’s a stuffy dinner, not you joining a nunnery.”_

She frowned, “You already vetoed my other two.”

_“What about the one I gave you for Christmas? The blue one?”_

“Oh, right,” Sherry had forgotten the blue dress. She retreated out of the view of her webcam, rummaging through her closet hangers.

_“Yeah, right! Dress to impress, grasshopper.”_

She rolled her eyes, thankful that Claire couldn’t see the almost giddy smile growing on her face. It’d been a few weeks since they had a Skype conversation, both of them too busy saving the world in their own ways to find something called “free time”. But Sherry was glad to have her here, here being an operative term. But that was alright, Sherry was long used to unorthodox friendships. And here, in her apartment, trying on dresses for a dinner with her best friend offering her opinions, it was almost enough to feel normal.

 _“You really need to think about painting your walls._ ” Claire’s voice was distorted, but still audible as Sherry located the hanger containing the new dress with an Ah-hah! moment of discovery.

“What’s wrong with them?”

 _“They’re a little…sterile, don’t you think?_ ”

Sherry’s fingers stilled their movements. She looked over her shoulder. White walls, white bedding, and standard beige carpet. It _was_ sterile. Just like-

She took a moment to respond, “What color, do you think?”

A thoughtful hum came from the computer, _“How about pink?”_

Sherry laughed, “With flames?”

_“Yeah!”_

“And Queen lyrics?”

“ _Oooh, I didn’t think of that. Could be fun-“_ Sherry could almost hear the revelation as she stepped out of the white dress and into the blue one, “ _Point taken. Blue?”_

Sherry zipped up the back of her dress, and adjusted the straps, “Blue could work.”

 _“Like baby blue, or_ blue _blue?”_

“Blue blue,” Sherry stepped in front of the video, “Better?”

 Claire gave a low whistle, _“Much better,”_ a thoughtful pause, _“But you won’t be able to hide your service weapon in that thing.”_

She grinned. It was nice to have friends who considered guns accessories, “No weapons allowed. The secret service will be on detail the whole night.”

_“Sounds like a hell of a party. I’m almost sorry I’m missing it.”_

“No you’re not.”

The older woman’s nose crinkled, _“No, I’m not. I’d like to be there, though. Catch up.”_

Sherry sat down on her computer chair, picking up on the resigned tone, “He’s doing okay.”

Claire’s eyes darted up guiltily, “ _Am I that obvious?”_

“No, I just know you. And I know why you’d be worried about Chris.”

 _“He hasn’t been the same since Wesker. And with his unit dying in Edonia and meeting Wesker’s son-_ “

That caught her attention. Sherry bolted up straight in her seat, “Claire, that’s classified.”

Claire made a dismissive gesture with her hand, _“I know a tech guy who owes me. You really think I wouldn’t check up on you, him, and Leon? I’m a workaholic, not oblivious.”_

Dread knotted up in Sherry’s stomach. If ‘a tech guy’ was able to break the security measures on Jake’s files, who else could?

_“Sherry?”_

She shook her head, staring at her mentor intently, “You can’t tell anyone. If his identity’s exposed, it could-“

 _“Relax. I can do discrete,_ ” Claire stared at her in confusion, “ _The file said you two worked together, didn’t it?”_

Sherry cleared her throat, “That’s. Not the point.”

Understanding flashed through Claire’s face, and Sherry wanted to groan and slam her laptop shut at the same time, “It’s not what you think.”

 _“I’m sure it’s not,_ ” though her voice was teasing, Sherry could make out the underlying tone of protection, _“Because that would be a bad idea for many, many reasons.”_

“It’s not like that.”

_“If you say so. Just. Be smart, okay?”_

“I will.”

A muddled voice sounded off behind Claire on the video feed, and she turned in her seat to face the disruption before wheeling back to the web cam, _“While it’s clear that we_ really _need to catch up about China, looks like I have to go for now. Ken is either in the middle of a psychotic breakdown or a moment of genius._ ”

So she was at TerraSave’s headquarters. Sherry wondered if her older friend would see natural sunlight ever again, “Okay. Thanks for helping me pick out a dress.”

_“No problem. Talk to Chris for me tonight if you have a second. I’d…like to make sure he’s doing okay.”_

“Of course.”

_“Thanks. And Sherry?”_

“Yes?”

“ _I mean it. About being smart.”_

Sherry felt that knotted feeling in her stomach again, though she couldn’t be sure why, “He’s not like his father.”

“ _Even still. He was a mercenary, right?”_

Crap. “He is.”

“ _Is_?” A loud crash boomed throughout Claire’s office. She swore under her breath, _“Looks like psychotic break down. I’ll phone you after work tomorrow._ ”

“Okay, take care.”

_“You too, bye Sherry.”_

The Skype call closed out, and Sherry sat there, looking at her reflection in the black computer screen.

Jake was a completely different person on paper. Sherry knew that. If Claire ever met him, she’d know it too.

Not that it would ever happen. Six months, four different invitations for him to visit. Four times he agreed, and four times he had to be somewhere else last minute. Like Boston. Or San Francisco. Or Chicago. Or New York. Four invites to join him when he knew she had other obligations in D.C. The first time was bad luck. The second, coincidence. The third a misunderstanding. Now Sherry knew he was avoiding her. What she didn’t know was why it disappointed her as much as it did.

_Because he’s your friend, moron._

Maybe that was it.

Whatever Jake was doing, it felt like a test. And Sherry didn’t appreciate being tested.  They both knew she wouldn’t drop the work she was doing for the DSO to go to New York. So why ask?

Her eyes darted to her phone, blinking with unread text messages.

She’d call him after the gala. Straighten it out.

But for now, Sherry had a different mission that demanded her attention:

Interdepartment politics.

With the resigned sigh of someone preparing for battle, Sherry picked up her brush and started to style her hair for the gala.

\--

Her fingers vacantly toyed with the window button for the fifth or sixth time during the drive to the gala, loud clicks echoing throughout the passenger seating area.

“Stop it,” Leon said with just the smallest of resigned sighs, one arm in a relaxed pose over the back of the leather seats, the other cradling his face against the window.

Sherry stopped, looking over. “Sorry.” She leaned forward, cradling her chin in her hand, “I’ve never been in a limo before.”

A ghost of a smirk appeared on the older man’s face, “The windows work the same, I promise.”

Her semi-apologetic smile was the only response as she turned her attention to the blurring trees outside. The two sat in comfortable silence before she started to recognize the streets surrounding the mall, “How much is this going to suck?”

“A lot,” he rolled his shoulders, “There’s empty political statements and too many forks at the table.”

“The horror.”

She fiddled with an imaginary wrinkle in her dress, crossing one leg over the other. Then put the leg down. Then crossed the other leg over the other. And put it down again.

The warm hand on her bare bicep surprised her, and she tilted her head to meet Leon’s gaze.

“There’s nothing to be worried about,” he said, his blue eyes taking in her unvoiced anxiety with no small amount of concern.

She smiled, though she didn’t feel it, “I’m not worried.”

“You are, and that’s okay. But you don’t need to be.”

Sherry closed her eyes, trying to think of a way to tell Leon that this was her first time at such an event. How being surrounded and scrutinized all over again was making her feel uneasy.  How much she was hating this dress and wishing she had picked out something she could deliver a high-kick in. How much she hated the feeling of eyes watching her every move, looking for something out of the ordinary to dissect and analyze.

But she couldn’t, so she didn’t. Instead she gave a nod, “You’re right.”

The limo pulled to a stop. Leon gave her a thumb’s up before stepping out. Sherry took a breath before doing the same.

\--

A man in a white tuxedo jacket and black dress pants was immediately outside the door waiting for her. She stared at the hand he offered her in bemusement before placing her own on it. He gave her a charming, rehearsed smile before walking her in to the front of the building.

President Howe, naturally, lived in the White House with his family. The mansion in question belonged to the former President Graham, and was a testament to the man’s considerable wealth before he entered into politics. A plush, red carpet covered the drive-up to the double-door entrance, where men on either side stood in service-professional attention. When Sherry and the man she was internally referring to as The Penguin approached the door, another Penguin took her coat and gestured her inside before she could whisper out a thank you to the first Penguin. Sherry gave a glance at Leon, who looked right at home, though irritated with, the strange processional of dignified hospitality.

Once the Penguins had checked them in, the two walked side by side down the corridor that presumably led to the main hall. Sherry eyed the walls, lined with expensive paintings. She shook her head. Having had a childhood immersed in the upper echelons of Umbrella, this wasn’t the first time she had been rubbing elbows with high society. Of course, more than a decade had passed since the last time, and no one had expected much of her other than her silence when she made the rare public appearance with the Birkins.

“You know the former President?” Sherry asked, eager to talk about anything at this point.

Leon nodded, “Did some…security work for him, and his daughter.”

Sherry smiled.

He sighed, “What?”

“Nothing. I just see Ashley Graham on the covers of those magazines at the front of the grocery store from time to time.”

Leon shook his head, but Sherry could see his phantom smile as two more penguins opened up the main doors to the hall.

The gala was definitely bigger in scope than what Sherry had envisioned- her rough body count had her in the seventy to eighty range. The plush, red carpet extended through the room, and a string quartet played beautifully on a platform towards the back of the room. All around the opulent hall, or was it more accurate to call it a ballroom? Her fancy mansion blueprints were rusty- a strange mixture of socialites, politicians, businessmen, and off-duty government agents mulled about with a variety of cocktails and champagne flutes in their hands. The latter were clear from the way their eyes never stopped moving, or the tenseness in their shoulders.

A Penguin walked by with a tray of champagne flutes. Sherry grabbed two, turning to Leon to offer him one. She was surprised to see he had already managed to find a tumbler of what looked to be scotch or whiskey.

“Ready to mingle?”

Sherry looked from champagne flute to champagne flute before downing one back quickly. The alcohol was burned out of her system by the G-Virus faster than it could be absorbed by the blood, but the placebo effect might be enough to get her through the evening.

“Sure.”

\--

The first familiar face Sherry came across was a welcomed one. Helena Harper stood to the side of the main event, nursing a tumbler similar to Leon’s and glowering at everyone and everything. Despite the tight, fashionable black dress she wore, there was little difference in appearance between the woman in front of her and the woman willing to crush a B.O.W.’s throat with her elbow. To her side a portly man- Sherry though she recognized him as a Senator- chatted incessantly while she remained coldly oblivious.

“Helena,” Leon greeted, raising his matching tumbler in salute.

“Leon,” Helena replied, a miniscule smile breaking the death stare before she nodded politely to Sherry. She returned the gesture.

The politician, not having been introduced, scowled and tottered off back into the party. Helena’s shoulders sagged with relief.

“The security detail here is a joke,” she said by way of small talk, dark eyes moving to the upper corners of the hall. Sherry followed the gesture, “Not only are those cameras painfully obvious, they leave a twenty, twenty-five degree blind spot in most corners.”

“Enjoying yourself, I take it?” Leon replied dryly.

She shrugged, but Sherry noticed humor in her expression for the first time, “It was either map out the schematics or listen to Senator Dunfy’s genius tax levy proposition. I’ll take the rotation of cameras.”

Sherry took another sip of champagne, and Helena offered her a sympathetic smile, “First one of these?”

No. But she highly doubted either agent wanted a recount of Umbrella fundraisers, “You could say that.”

“Watch out for creeps. A lot of people here are convinced wealth and girth makes for an attractive combination,” Helena took a drink from her tumbler, “And, unfortunately, we have to play nice.”

“LEON!”

The call made all three turn to its source, and Sherry could vaguely make out a woman in a dark orange dress waving her arm from across the hall. Leon gave a small, half-wave in return before turning to Sherry and Helena.

“I’ll be back.”

Helena dismissed him with a nod, and Leon gave Sherry a reassuring pat on the shoulder before making his way through the sea of the black-tie.

“He’s popular at these things,” the older woman commented on blithely, amusement in her tone.

“I’m sure he is,” Sherry agreed, moving so she stood next to the Secret Service agent, “Have you been here long?”

“An hour, most of it has been spent here,” she gave a bitter smile, “I’m not exactly the poster child for the operation.”

Sherry vaguely recalled the same rumors that she was currently involved in also surrounding Agent Harper. Rumors of conspiracy with Simmons, insubordination, and the rest.

“I’m sorry,” she offered sincerely, “I guess that makes two of us.”

Helena’s smile turned sympathetic before she rose her glass to Sherry’s, the ‘tink’ sound of glass touching glass echoing, “If nothing else it spares us from that.” She gestured to closer to the stage area, where before the podium there was a small crowd forming.

It took Sherry a few moments to discern what the suits were surrounding, and when she did she felt a pang of sadness. Chris Redfield, wearing a tuxedo that looked like it could tear off him if he flexed his arms, stood in between two women. The first was easily recognizable as Ingrid Hunnigan, who was animatedly chatting with the crowd. The second woman Sherry didn’t know, but she cut an imposing figure in navy blue. Her arm was linked through his, and she would speak politely, but sparsely. Chris stood stoic. His eyes were fixed straight ahead, and his jaw held a slight clench. Sometimes he would offer a strained smile. But it was clear he’d rather be surrounded by sharks.

Sherry recalled her earlier conversation with his sister. And felt something hollow in her stomach when she remembered Jake convincing her to leave him and Piers behind to save the world.

“They’re using him and the BSAA as the public face of the operation,” Helena said with a snort, breaking Sherry away from her thoughts, “I’m sure the last thing he wants right now is cameras in his face and politicians asking for photographs.”

Sherry frowned, forcing herself to look away and instead stare at the champagne swirling around in her glass. “I can’t wait to be back on active duty.”

Helena grinned, “That makes two of us. I have another month of probation, you?”

Sherry shrugged. The mission from Hunnigan was classified, “No idea. They’ve been having a great time sending me from desk to desk, though.”

She laughed, “Right. Guess you’re not suspicious enough for paperwork. You’d think after everything-“ her manicured fingers tightened in a death grip around her glass, “It’s just amazing the hoops they want us to jump through. After China.”

It was probably time for another drink. Sherry waved at a Penguin that was passing by and seamlessly exchanged her empty flute for another. At least that she had a handle on. “We’ll get through it.”

“We will,” Helena’s gaze dropped down to her tumbler again. Her following mutter was easy to hear, hard to decipher, “Creep, ten o’clock.”

Before Sherry could ask what she meant, she felt a tap on her shoulder. She turned, and as she processed who it was that stood in front of her she felt her heart rate accelerate. Her grip went lax on the flute she was holding, and forgetting all propriety the question was out of her mouth before she could filter it like she usually did.

“What are you doing here?”

Sherry vaguely sensed Helena tensing behind her, and it was reassuring to know the older woman had her back as she stared straight into some of her most hellish memories.

Peter-she never did learn his last name- stood in front of her, an expression easily as shocked as her own mirrored on his face. He was wearing a tuxedo, plain but expensive, and his eyes widened behind the wire-rimmed glasses.

“It is you! I thought… I mean. Shit. I didn’t-“ he grew red in the face as Sherry tried to keep her jaw from going slack.

“This guy bothering you?” Helena asked darkly, positioning herself to Sherry’s side.

Yes. “No, I was just. Surprised. To see you,” Sherry took a deep breath, closing her eyes, “Helena this is Peter. He used to work at the government lab where I was-“ imprisoned, “-staying.”

Her stance shifted from Ready to Kill to Ready to Maim.

Peter had been nice, Sherry remembered that much. One of the few scientists at the lab who made an effort to start conversations with her. But it was impossible to separate the man in front of her from the memories of being a kept lab rat for over ten years, regardless of his temperament.

He tugged desperately at his collar, “Sorry. For startling you. I just couldn’t believe-“ He tried to smile, “I mean. You look great,” he winced, “Not your cell count or anything. Just. You know. You.”

Helena sent Sherry a sidelong glance that communicated a mixture of bemusement and irritation.

“It’s. Me,” Sherry fixed her polite, professional smile on to her face. The comfortable mask that let her deal with researchers, doctors, mercenaries, government officials, and B.O.W.s all the same. Internally she was trying to master the anxiety of seeing the familiar face now that it wasn’t behind a plexi-glass screen reading off her vitals.

Peter winced, and cleared his throat, “Sorry, this is. Uh. It’s awkward. Let’s try again?”

“…sure.”

He smiled, and color returned to his face that wasn’t a searing red, “Thanks.”

Two of the deadliest women in the room and a former researcher stood in an awkward, silent, standstill.

“So what are you doing here?” Sherry repeated, not liking how Peter fluctuated between “about to faint” and “about to actually say something”.

He sagged a little, obviously relieved to have direction in the conversation, “I’m here with HelixGen,” at the blank stares he received, he pressed forward, eyes lighting up in an excitement that uncomfortably reminded Sherry of her father talking about his research, “We’re the company in charge of manufacturing the C-Virus antidote?”

Sherry wracked her memory, trying to recall the details from the endless files she had been processing the last few months, “You’re non-profit, right?”

Peter nodded, the turn of the conversation seeming to invigorate him, “Right! I mean, after I got shit-cann-“ he swallowed the word, “Uh, sorry. _Released_ from the government lab a lot of the higher-up pharmaceutical companies wouldn’t even look at my resume. HelixGen was a start-up at the time. I really lucked out.”

That was news to her, “You were fired?”

He shrugged, “Sort of. They didn’t renew my contract,” he scowled, “Let’s just say I’m not surprised by how much of a dick Simmons turned out to be. Anyone with half a brain could see there was something off about him.”

“Watch it,” Helena said easily enough, but there was a protective quality to her tone that surprised Sherry. The younger agent smiled at her.

“It’s alright.”

Peter groaned, his face creeping into the red territory again, “Sorry, I forgot the two of you were close.”

The statement made her stomach roll. Sherry forced herself to keep the polite smile on her face. “Not anymore.”

“No, I’m sure he’s locked up in government basement somewhere.”

Helena smirked.

Peter looked a little uneasy about the expression, and quickly turned his attention back to Sherry, “So, uh, come here often?”

Helena rolled her eyes and tossed back the rest of her tumbler, “I need to check-in with my party, are you going to be alright?”

Sherry looked from Helena to Peter. Red faced, severely uncomfortable Peter before she gave a hesitant nod. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’ll be within hearing distance.”

Somehow Sherry didn’t doubt that. Helena shot Peter one last dark look before she strode off to another table. Sherry shook her head at Peter’s question.

“No, but we were invited.”

“We?”

“I’m an agent with the DSO,” Sherry offered.

The former intern’s eyes widened at that, and he gave a low whistle, “A field agent?”

She nodded.

“Damn,” he said, and Sherry felt her fixed smile start to slide as he processed the information. It was mean spirited, but her mind automatically came to the assumption that he was trying to reconcile helpless lab rat Birkin with the mental image of a government agent, “I guess it’s nice, huh? Getting to travel, and all that?”

The question caught her off guard. “Yeah…it is.”

He met her eyes, and Sherry was again surprised when she saw sincerity in them, “I’m glad. No one should have to…I’m glad you get to do something you want, I mean.”

She bit down on her lip. “Thank you. Me too.”

He cleared his throat, the comment clearly making him uncomfortable again, “So were you part of the group that got the vaccine? Or can I ask that?”

Her mind conjured up images of red hair, a scowl, and blue eyes. She shook her head, “Classified information, I’m afraid.”

“Right,” tentatively, he moved to stand beside Sherry, leaning against a pillar, “I hate these things.”

Sherry tilted her head, “Do them often?”

He nodded, “Yeah. I mean, I work a lot with the PR department of the company when I’m not buried in beakers,” he gave a self-deprecating smile, “Go figure, huh?”

She shrugged, “I’m sure there are worse out there,” her mind involuntarily returned to the cold, emotionless faces behind the windows as they poked and prodded her. Not a smile or word in ten years for their patient.

“I’d rather be back at the research center,” he said, “I mean! I’m glad I got to run into you, I just. You know. Crowds.”

She gave the first genuine smile since seeing him. Yeah, she knew crowds, “Where’s the research center?”

He gave her an overly cheesy wink that would have looked more natural if he wasn’t turning beet-red again, “I’d tell you, but I’d have to kill you.”

She rose her eyebrows at that. He was close to six foot three or four, and probably weighed all of one hundred and fifty pounds soaking wet.

He colored again, “We’re just synthesizing the vaccine now, the higher-ups don’t want us to broadcast where we’re doing it until the product goes to market.”

“I understand.” Her exposure to the world of pharmaceuticals had taught her one thing: companies were extremely cut-throat and protective over information.

Peter fidgeted with his cuffs. He was always toying with something, Sherry noticed, between his tie, collar, pockets, and shirt his hands hadn’t stilled for ten seconds. Nervous. And…sad?

“Are you okay?”

Peter looked up with a deer-caught-in-the-headlights expression, “What? Oh, geez, sorry. I spaced a little there,” he offered that awkward half-smile of his, “Do you want to, uh. Sit down or something? Catch up?”

The idea made something within her recoil. There wasn’t anything she really wanted to reminisce over in regards to the last time they had talked, but at the same time she was intrigued with his work. She had busted her ass for that vaccine, she wanted to know more about its distributers.

“For a little while, I guess,” she hedged, grabbing another champagne from a passing-by Penguin, “Though I’ll be expected to accompany the DSO representatives once the formal ceremony starts.”

The half-smile morphed into a full one, “Great! I’ll grab us a table.”

Sherry watched him go, noticing how he avoided conversation with most of the other guests. Something was off about him. She shook her head, taking another sip of champagne. It was just small talk with someone who was as close to a friend as she could get. There was no need to feel so uneasy.

Still. Sherry made a mental note to do some more research on HelixGen before she followed after him.

\--

It took the intervention of the President for Leon to escape conversation with the Grahams. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate seeing Ashley again, she was something of a friend, but there was only so much political discussion he could stand before wanting another scotch, and he only had two drinks left on his self-imposed limit for formal dinners. Thankfully, President Howe had requested him to take a walk around the party with him.

When the President requested something, you didn’t say no.

Thomas Howe was a quiet, reserved man. A perfect balance to Adam, Thomas was sharp and cold where the former president had been cheerful and outgoing. He had a mind for logistics, strategy, and tactics. And as much as Leon hated to admit it, it was time for the cold, clear approach instead of the idealistic one. Idealism had gotten Adam killed.

Matching Howe’s steps easily, Leon glanced over to where he had left Sherry. She was gone. He scanned the area until he finally saw her sitting at a table and conversing with a man her age. Scrawny, probably 150 pounds soaking wet. Ultimately harmless, even if he was making cow-eyes. Relief flooded through him. As much as he knew she was a capable field agent, it was hard to shake the image of a twelve year old girl wearing a red headband, and the protective streak that went with it.

“Enjoying yourself, Agent Kennedy?” Howe’s taciturn voice turned his attention away from the two.

“As much as can be expected,” he replied honestly, as they walked along the outskirts of the party. Leon glanced Chris’s bulk in the middle of a sea of suits and winced. Poor guy.

“I just wanted to take a moment to personally thank you for your contributions to stopping Simmons,” he continued, delicately sipping from his champagne flute, “You’re an exceptional field agent, it was fortunate you were on Adam’s detail, otherwise the events of Tall Oaks and China no doubt would have been exacerbated.”

Leon heard what was being unspoken: Howe did not think it was within his power to save the former President. It still stung to be reminded of firing a bullet into Adam’s skull.

“Thank you, Mr. President.”

“Thanks are not necessary, Agent Kennedy. This administration owes you and your fellow DSO agents a great debt.”

“Just doing my job-“

And then he saw it: a little passed Howe’s shoulder a flash of red darted behind one of the decorative, marble pillars that led out onto the surveying balconies. It wasn’t an accident that he managed to look up with just enough time to see it disappear from his vision- nothing with her was ever an accident.

“Agent Kennedy?” Howe’s dark eyes flashed with concern and Leon’s attention was diverted instantly back to the President.

“Sorry. And it’s just Leon,” while he was nowhere near as close with Howe as he had been with Adam, the two had enough of a relationship outside of their working one to be on an actual name basis.

“Leon, then. Something on your mind?”

The man missed nothing. Part of the reason why Adam had been so effective with his presidential campaign following the enormously popular incumbent, President Graham. Leon cleared his throat, deftly grabbing a tumbler of scotch from one of the passing servers’ trays as yet another young man in a white waistcoat and black tie passed them. One more to go.

“Just wanting some air.”

Howe looked to the alcohol, then back to Leon’s expression. His dark brows furrowed in skepticism but he nodded, “Yes, I imagine the more…bureaucratic duties of your position pale compared to the field work,” he gestured to the marble pillar, the same one that flash of red had disappeared into, “You might find a few minutes viewing the gardens relaxing, I certainly do.”

Leon frowned, meeting his gaze. Slowly, in an expression that Leon could safely say had never crossed his face before, President Thomas Howe winked.

The man missed _nothing._

Leon tossed back the contents of the tumbler, and seamlessly deposited the empty glass onto a different serving tray. Apparently the wait staff had it in mind to circle him like a shark throughout the events. Probably not a bad idea. Suits weren’t unusual for Leon, but being surrounded by them was and a ready source of alcohol wasn’t necessarily a bad thing.

“Not a bad idea,” he gave a nod, “If you’ll excuse me.”

Howe returned the expression in dismissal, “Of course. Besides, it seems one of the representatives from HelixGen has been wanting a word with me for the better part of an hour, and I’d hate to leave him and his requests for money unheeded.”

The President turned to walk past him, two men in black suits moving in tandem behind him.

He counted to five before he started walking towards the pillars. Appropriate enough to shake the tail, and for once, maybe leave her waiting in expectation.

Despite the crowded population of the banquet hall, the mindless chatter and string music faded as Leon rounded a corner. Two decorative pillars framed a set of closed, French-style doors that no doubt led to a balcony. Without hesitation, Leon pushed them open.

Only one, lone guest was on the spacious terrace, and, of course, her back was turned towards the door. Only one woman would have such confidence in a building full of government operatives.

She was wearing a long, red dress in a fabric Leon assumed was both expensive and intentionally clinging, with a dropped back that stopped just before things didn’t have to be left up to the imagination. Her short hair was pinned back in red clips, and black, elbow-length gloves added both an air of sophistication and destroyed any chance of her fingerprints showing up on incriminating documents later. The dress’s slit was modest, though Leon found his eyes glued to it, if for any other reason than to make sure there wasn’t an ammo box stashed somewhere.

Ada.

He turned to his left, as if expecting another wait staff to appear at his side, tumbler of expensive scotch at the ready. No such luck. Too bad, he got the feeling he was going to need it.

“Long time no see, Leon,” she said, staring out at the gardens. She braced her hands on the balcony’s concrete edge, leaning slightly.

“Ada,” he took a hesitant step forward, and when she didn’t move, took a few more until he stood beside her, “I’m guessing you’re here for the appetizers?”

She kept her gaze pinpointed forward, though a small smirk spread across her lips. Leon stared at them, felt that strange sensation of exasperation mixed with longing, before sighing and leaning against the railing as well, “You know I never was one to resist a good party.”

“Right,” his eyes searched the gardens, looking for red laser lines, operatives dressed in black, or any of the other signs of trouble Ada inevitably brought with her.

“Suspicion really isn’t a good look for you.”

“Can’t blame a man for old habits.”

Ada turned to him then, brown eyes sparkling with mischief and Leon’s instincts were screaming the same way they did when he saw someone pull a grenade pin, “Old habits, hm? I’ve been called worse.”

“You’re not an old habit.”

“No?”

“…a repeating habit would be more accurate.”

She smiled, and Leon wasn’t sure if he was imagining her tilting her head closer to his, like lovers sharing a secret, “You do know how to charm them. But. As much as I wish this was a social call…”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, “Time for the next crisis?”

“Something like that.”

Leon exhaled, meeting her stare- a wordless request to elaborate.

“As you know, Simmons was only the tip of the iceberg,” she turned away from Leon again, her shrewd stare evaluating the gardens. No doubt every inch of this place was bugged for the gala, but Leon suspected she had chosen to meet him here specifically for that reason.

“Neo-Umbrella?” He guessed.

A curt nod, “He never knew his limits, that man.”

“We’ve been unable to pick up any intel beyond what you and Sherry were able to deliver.” Leon smiled, “Thank you, by the way.”

She dismissed him with a wave of her elegant, untraceable hand, “Someone has to watch out for you, and I’m starting to think I’m the only one qualified.”

“Still.”

Ada tore her gaze away from the gardens to smile at him again, shaking her head, “Ever the boy scout.” This time, he knew he didn’t imagine her leaning towards him. That’s how it worked, him and her, running alongside each other but never intersecting. When she continued, her voice was lowered only a little above a whisper, “Be careful with your selection of assignments in the near future.”

He frowned, “Any reason?” Knowing that, of course, there were at least two: the real reason, and the one she would give him.

“The game’s about to be changing.”

“How?”

She shook her head, “The less you know, the better.”

“Haven’t heard that one before.”

Ada made another step towards him. He turned to face her. He always turned to face her. They were close enough that conclusions would be drawn if anyone were walking by. Leon took a deep, steadying breath. He could smell her perfume.

“You make saving your life very difficult, you know,” she muttered calmly.

He snorted, “I’m sure I could make it easier if you were straight with me. For once.”

In response, her hands moved, and Leon’s own went towards his side knife holster, but Ada only moved to fix his tie. The navy blue silk ran over her deft fingers like water as she redid the knot, “Tense?”

“Never.”

“You’re a lousy liar,” the knot slid up towards his neck, and she dropped the tie to smooth a hand over his chest instead, “Though you do clean up nicely.”

“I’ll bring an ascot to the next outbreak.”

“You’re supposed to compliment the lady after she compliments you- I never pegged you for bad manners,” her eyes danced with that grenade-pin-inducing effect again, and this time it was Leon who leaned forward.

“It’s a nice dress.”

“I had it lying around.”

He brought up a hand to cover the one she had on his chest, stilling her movement. “You were saying something about Neo-Umbrella?”

“And here I was thinking you were about to ask me to dinner,” she looked down at the ground, no doubt so Leon couldn’t see the frustration on her face. He was sure her wiles approach had fooled stronger men.

“Ada.”

She slipped her hand out from under his and instead lightly traced her fingers over the edge of his jaw. She was silent for a moment, gaze locking somewhere over his shoulder. Leon turned to look, but she used her hand to stop the motion and keep his eyes on her, “Ask nicely, or I’ll tell them about your involvement with Simmons.”

“Simmons-?” What was she talking about? So far the only connection Leon had with the maniac was that the man had absorbed about half his annual budget in 9mm ammo.

“I’m sorry, Leon. Really.”

“Sorry for what-?”

He felt a slight tug on his newly-fixed tie followed by the sensation of lips against his. Caught off guard, he was stiff until he registered that the hand Ada placed on his jaw was wandering, her feather-light touch skimming the back of his neck in a movement that made _something_ in him shift. Her lipstick was smooth, and as his mind went to all the letters, compacts, key chains, rocket launchers, and paper airplanes all teasingly stained with that damn shade of red, Leon realized he wanted more of it. Had wanted more of it for a while.

He closed his eyes, his entire body seeming to uncoil as one of his hands rested on her hip- he was right, the material was expensive and it was _definitely_ clinging- and the other buried itself into her perfectly styled hair. Ada made a breathy noise- something in between a hum of contentment and an admission of approval-before she bit lightly on his lower lip. Not to be outdone, he responded by parting his lips, knowing someone as opportunistic as Ada Wong would take advantage of it.

Leon wasn’t wrong, and he felt the small of his back dig into the railing as Ada pushed him against it, one hand still firmly holding his tie and the other smoothing down his back in a pace so agonizingly slow it had to be in retaliation to him messing up her hair. Two could play at that game, and he moved the hand on her hip to her back, feeling her warm, exposed skin underneath it. Thank god for backless dresses. He went to press her tighter against him, deepening their kiss by burying his fingers further into her hair-

-and he pulled back with a hiss as one of her clips bit deeply into his finger. He could feel the blood welling already. Bladed hair accessories, seriously?

Shaking it off, he dropped his hand and went to continue what she had started, but he could tell something had changed. The hand she had on his tie went limp to her side, her eyes glued to the collar of his shirt. She was motionless in front of him, though her breath came in sharp pants.

His own breathing rate wasn’t much better. He inhaled through his nose slowly, trying to get his bearings, “Ada?”

She looked up, a coy smile on her face as she moved both of her hands to rest on his shoulders, “You’ll thank me for this.”

And that was enough to kill any moment that might have been occurring or on its way to occurring. Feeling dazed- or maybe whiplashed was a better word for anything involving Ada- Leon frowned, “Thanks?”

“You’re welcome,” she leaned forward, and this time when their lips connected it was almost chaste. She pulled away, taking a few steps backwards. Leon’s hands fell empty to his sides and he straightened off of the railing.

“Ada-?”

“Goodnight, handsome. Enjoy your party.”

Her hand went to the slit in her dress, and Leon sighed. He knew what came next. The hook shot was withdrawn from a thigh holster with a fluid motion, and before he knew it there was nothing in front of him and the mechanical sound of a woman ascending on a metal tether echoed throughout the night.

As she disappeared into the darkness, Leon found himself experiencing the usual feelings that emerged following a visit from Ada Wong: lack of satisfaction, desire, and the endless curiosity as to how she stored that grappling hook in an evening gown with no one noticing.

Above him, he could make out a shadowed, stilettoed figure landing soundlessly on the roof. Leon ran a hand through his hair before putting it in the pocket of his rumpled tuxedo jacket.

“See you around,” Ada whispered, smiling with a promise he still wasn’t sure he understood, before she swung to another platform and disappeared.

“See you around,” he repeated quietly, though he smirked when his fingers made contact with the cool, smooth metal surface of the compact that was nesting inside his coat.

He’d have to return it to her next time.

Leon shook his head, taking a moment to collect himself before going back in to the gala. As he turned, a small, blinking red light caught his attention from the top corner of the doors leading back into the building.

Shit. A security camera. And here he was, outside of the twenty to twenty-five degree blind spot of it.

Agent Kennedy wiped the lipstick off his face. Maybe no one would notice.

\--

An hour after she had sat down with Peter, Sherry found herself at the reserved table as President Howe prepare to make his speech. It was a smaller table, and she immediately felt more at ease in the presence of her new company. To her right sat Helena, and on her left was an empty chair reserved for Leon, wherever he was. Across from them sat Chris, Hunnigan, and the unknown woman in navy that had accompanied them. Sherry snuck a glance at the place card: Jill Valentine. The name sounded familiar, though she couldn’t place it.

“Sherry,” Chris greeted in his friendly yet formal manner, giving her a stiff nod and looking beyond exhausted from the night’s events.

“Chris,” she responded with a small smile, bowing her head down to Hunnigan, “Sir.”

Hunnigan waved her off with a happy grin, “No need for that tonight, Agent Birkin. We’re all friends here.”

They were, in a manner. And it was then that Sherry realized the table not only held the survivors of China, but also the former FOS coordinator, two DSO agents, a SS agent, and the leader of the BSAA. A small mixture of different agencies, three of which were only a little less than hostile. Hunnigan had made a political gesture with _chair arrangements._

“This is my partner, Jill,” Chris introduced, before taking a quiet sip of his water.

The woman in navy extended her hand, and Sherry took it, “It’s nice to meet you.”

Jill smiled far more easily than her partner, “Likewise. I’ve read some of the reports from China, impressive for your first major field assignment.”

Sherry looked at Chris in confusion before he clarified, “Jill is the co-founder of the BSAA. She was on assignment in Africa at the time.”

The name clicked as Sherry instantly recalled the news reports and files she had prepared after Simmons’ defeat. She was about to ask another question when Leon slid in the chair next to her. Sherry noted he seemed a little out of breath, his hair mussed in the back, and a new drink in his hand. His drawn, vaguely annoyed stare seemed to dare her to ask about it. She didn’t.

“Glad you could join us, Leon,” Hunnigan said, straightening her glasses.

“Can’t miss the big speech,” he turned to the man across the table, “Chris.”

“Leon.”

“The President is about to speak,” Hunnigan interjected, and the occupants of the table fell silent as the lights dimmed.

When the President took a stand behind the podium, the first word that popped into Sherry’s mind was _hawk._ With his dark eyes and slightly hooked nose, he cut an imposing figure that radiated none of President Benson’s warmth. Sherry paid half-attention to the President’s opening words: it was the traditional thanks, welcome, here’s where you can donate money, etc. routine. Instead, she studied the man. He seemed trustworthy and unflappable, but so had Simmons at one point. She knew President Howe deserved her respect, but the events of China had fitted Sherry with jade-colored glasses that were hard to shake off.

Howe then moved on to speaking about HelixGen, and how excitement in their research was escalating. Veiled code for the C-Virus antidote, and Sherry turned to look at Peter’s table. He sat there with the other representatives from the company, all of them beaming in pride and barely contained excitement. Sherry knew it was a blanket assumption, but seeing that unbridled joy in conjuncture with genetics research always created that uneasy feeling in her stomach.

Peter caught her stare and raised his glass. Sherry turned away without repeating the gesture, a hand rubbing her opposite arm.

It was when Howe moved on to the events that made such research possible, that a noticeable hush fell over the crowd in general, and Sherry felt the stares directed at her table as Howe talked about Tall Oaks and Lanshiang. She watched as Chris’s expression grew more and more morose as Howe paid tribute to the unnamed, fallen soldiers of the BSAA. How Helena gripped her glass tightly when Howe reminded everyone of the civilians that had been unfortunately caught in the crossfire, and how those who survived because of HelixGen’s research would be tribute to their memories.

Sherry could feel the tension at the table escalate even further when Howe quietly ended his speech with the honorary name they were giving the C-Virus antidote:

The Nivans vaccination was expected to be released to the mass market in six months, and was currently available in clinical trials. It had already saved four lives in said trials.

The President’s speech ended, and Sherry applauded because that was what she was supposed to do, but his words left something hollow behind. And it was clear from the expressions on the survivor’s faces that she wasn’t the only one who thought so.

The bottom of Chris’s glass hit the table and a wave of silence washed over the survivors. He remained mute, staring at the welling drops of condensation that coated the drink as if they had an answer. As if someone would have an answer. When the quiet stretched, blanketing them all to the point where Sherry was sure no one would say anything again for the rest of the gala, the leader of the BSAA finally spoke.

“We made it,” his voice was calm, “Despite everything, we made it.” Chris’s fingers gripped the edge of the table and his eyes didn’t move from the amber liquid, and the reflected light from it danced across his face. It called attention to the deep lines that had started around the corners of his mouth, the darkness coloring under his eyes. “Let’s not forget the ones who didn’t,” he inhaled, and it was a sharp sound- like a drowning man desperately trying to remain afloat, “And we won’t let anyone else forget them, either. Or the good they’ve done.”

Sherry stared, trying to tell herself that her vision wasn’t growing blurry around the edges as Jill wordlessly slid her hand over her partner’s. As Chris closed his eyes as if in physical pain. Sherry did the only thing she could do.

She cleared her throat and raised her glass of white wine, “To Piers,” she whispered, remembering the young man who had helped save her life more times than she had realized.

Chris opened his eyes, and his richly brown stare locked on her grey one. He nodded, clearing his throat as well, “To Finn. Marco. Reid. Keaton. Jeff.”

“For Deborah,” the name was rasped and Sherry felt something twist in her gut as she took in the complete, raw grief on Helena’s face. Leon gave his former partner a reassuring hand on her shoulder, and continued:

“Adam.”

Chris’s voice was steady, “Rebecca. Joseph. Enrico. Brad. Richard.”

“Luis.”

“Mike. Steve.”

They had only just started.

“Kenneth.”

She stared down at the floor as her friends and colleagues offered more memories. Heroes, who had died protecting people. Civilians caught in the crossfire. Friends, co-workers, families.

“Edward.”

Sherry’s fingers traced over the base of her champagne flute.

“Forrest.”

She knew two names that wouldn’t be coming up.

Agent Birkin took a drink of wine, and told herself she didn’t feel guilty. That she wasn’t ignoring one big, blinding truth. That there wasn’t a small part of her that knew for twelve years before they were William and Annette to the rest of the world, they were mom and dad first, and those two figures had been equally lost that night in Raccoon City.

Sherry took another drink.

It was going to be a long dinner.

\--

When the gala ended, Leon drove her home to her empty, sterile-looking apartment. She moved on auto-pilot as she slipped off her heels, her dress, said goodnight to her cat Winston, and collapsed in a rather undignified pile on the top of her bed. She vaguely noticed a missed call from Hunnigan on her phone before passing out in exhaustion.

What she didn’t notice, was that someone had refilled her cat’s food dish.


	4. Forces in Motion

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for how long this took to get out! I’m in grad school at the moment, and that is definitely demanding a lot of my time. Thanks for your comments/reviews, kudos, subscriptions, and most importantly your patience!!

MVALDA  
EDONIA  
16 JULY 1997

 

_He hated the thing in front of him, and with his arms crossed over his chest and posture rigid, he tried to intimidate the inanimate object into leaving their house._

_“What’s wrong, Jakob?” His uncle’s voice came from across the room, and he heard his footsteps coming closer until he stopped beside him._

_“What is this thing,” he asked crossly, eying it with contempt._

_His uncle smiled thinly, “It’s a piano.”_

_“It looks expensive.”_

_His uncle slowly put his hands in his pockets, and when he replied, his voice was small, “It was.”_

_Jakob turned to him, staring straight at his uncle in barely repressed anger, “We don’t need it!”_

_“Your mother needs it.”_

_“No, my mother needs medicine. I bet this piano could buy…ten of them!”_

_His uncle rested his hands on his nephew’s thin shoulders, amused at the certainty with which little Jakob allotted value, “It’s a medicine of sort. Your mother likes music very much, you know.”_

_Jakob snorted at the statement, “Music won’t stop coughing.”_

_“Why not?”_

_“What do you mean, why not? It doesn’t! Everyone knows that.”_

_“Who’s everyone?”_

_“Stop trying to act like buying this stupid thing was a good idea.”_

_His uncle sighed, bending down on one knee, “Let us make a deal then.”_

_Jakob continued to glare at him, but stayed silent. A compromise on his part, no doubt._

_His uncle continued, “You learn one song, and play for your mother. When you are done, and she hears it, then we can sell it.”_

_His nephew scowled, “Swear?”_

_“I swear.”_

_“Fine-“_

_“But the song you learn is one I pick. Do we have a deal?”_

_Jakob stared his uncle down, trying to evaluate the integrity of his conditions. Finally, he nodded, “Only_ one _.”_

_“Only one,” His uncle agreed._

_The next morning, Jakob woke up to see sheet music beside his bedside. Sitting up, he read the title and frowned. It was called_ “Revolutionary Etude” _by someone named Chopin. He frowned, thinking his uncle an idiot. The music he picked wasn’t even written by a man with two names._

_But Jakob kept his deals. And the next month was spent trying to figure out the complex puzzle of lines and dots on the pages._

_The month after that, his uncle would be shot by the government police. But Jakob kept his deals, and so kept practicing._

**CHAPTER THREE: FORCES IN MOTION**  
WASHINGTON D.C.  
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
22 DECEMBER 2013

The place was like a fucking museum. He was pretty sure if he trailed his gloved hand over the top of the fridge it’d come away dust-free. But along with the mental snort of derision, the corner of his mouth tilted up into a grin. Typical. She probably alphabetized her DVDs.

Jake stepped a leg into the apartment from outside of the window, the other following behind it. As he silently shut the window behind him, he made a mental note to talk to Sherry about her security systems. Weird ass healing powers and eight ladders of fire escape aside, it was sloppy to not have at least a motion detector on all the entrances. Especially when someone had a steady paycheck from Uncle Sam to finance a basic surveillance system.

He took a second to look around, letting his eyes adjust to the lack of light. Judging from the complete darkness, Sherry either wasn’t home from that stupid party yet, or she lived a stranger life than he had initially anticipated. He’d go with the former. Jake took a step forward, but stopped, a frown replacing the grin on his lips. Taking another glance around- white walls, white carpet, off-white furniture- he rubbed the back of his neck. After what appeared to be a moment of internal dilemma, Jake finally sighed and bent down on a knee. His fingers worked quickly, and his boot slipped easily off his foot, then the other. Jake pressed them against the wall and walked across the carpet on socks that were two different shades of black.

After some blind groping of the wall, he finally flicked the light on. The world’s most soulless apartment looked back at him, as well as a pair of luminescent cat eyes. Jake scowled at the thing. It was the ugliest fucking cat he’d ever seen, lounging on the back of Sherry’s couch. With one of its ears was missing, its face looked like someone had slammed it against a dumpster, and chunks of fur missing from it in huge, gaping patches, the animal practically screamed pity project. It hissed at him. He pulled a face back at it before leaning against the counter.

“Sherry?”

The name seemed to get absorbed into the walls. This place was so efficient it was creepy. He’d seen motel rooms that looked more lived in.

“Sherry?” He called again, this time slightly louder.

It was worth a shot. Even though he was positive she was still out at brown-noser prom—the echoing silence only confirmed it. Jake shook his head, arms crossing over his chest as he leaned against the counter that was a little lower than the height of his hip. Whatever, he could wait an hour or two. No doubt when the party was over she’d be taking the fastest ride home she could.

Jake stood.

Rolled his shoulders.

And stood.

The damn cat continued to stare him down. Jake returned the expression with eyebrows raised in challenge. The cat looked down after a few moments, appropriately mollified.

Score one, Muller.

Another few minutes ticked by.

Fuck, he was bored. Time to snoop.

Jake crossed the threshold of the living room again, eyes resting on the bookshelf of neatly organized DVDs. He crouched low, thumbing through them. Sure as shit, they were alphabetized.

And bad cop movies, mostly from the eighties or some shit. _Bad Boys, Bad Boys II, Die Hard I-V, Point Break…_ they went on and on. Jake groaned, kind of in a mood for a documentary or something with a little more substance. His eyes darted to the shelf above his eye level: CDs. A weird mixture of the most aggressive music on the planet looked back: Ludacris, Tupac Shakur, and DMX were neatly labeled “Rap”, while next to them was Chimaera, Cradle of Filth, and GWAR with a neat label of “Metal”. Sex Pistols, Dropkick Murphys, and the Ramones- “Punk”. And so on. Jake snorted, shaking his head before reluctantly pulling out Sherry’s copy of _Lethal Weapon 4_ , and internally he made a vow to get her recordings of Chopin, Mozart, or hell, even Beethoven. And maybe tell her to buy an iPod. Because who the hell had CDs anymore.

 _Someone who’s been a glorified lab rat for most of their lives._ A chastising voice in the back of Jake’s voice reminded him, and he sighed as he popped _Lethal Weapon 4_ into the DVD/VCR combo player. Maybe he’d just get her one. Sneak it in her mail box or something. Did she get mail? He made a mental note to check the entryway of the building on his way out.

The ugliest cat in the world made a pathetic, whining noise at him. Jake ignored it as he inched back and turned on the TV. He groaned, taking in Mel Gibson’s hair. He’d need some popcorn for this piece of crap.

Opening Sherry’s food cabinets had a similar effect as going through her movies- everything was neatly organized and clearly labelled. It was remarkably easy to find the “Snacks” shelf with the subdivision “Popcorn”. It was not easy to stop his eyes from rolling. Supergirl, efficient as always.

The thought shouldn’t have made him smirk. But it did.

Another pitiful groan sounded by his shoulder, and he turned, “What?”

The hellbeast cat stared at him, then at the microwave where the popcorn was popping, and then back to him.

“Nice try, rodent. This is mine.”

The cat whined again.

Jake glared at it. It glared back before almost spitefully letting out another annoying whine.

“You’re not going to shut up, are you?”

It meowed.

He groaned, “Fine, asshole. Where’s your food?”

Its only response was another meow. And Jake muttered under his breath as he found the cabinet entitled “Food- Winston”. Unless Sherry had a boyfriend he didn’t know about- and that was a thought he wasn’t going to entertain- he’d found the cat food. Sure enough, lines of Fancy Feast met his gaze. He scowled, picking the one that sounded the least pretentious and unceremoniously opening it, dumping it in a white food dish, and recycling the can.

“There. Fucking happy now?”

The cat ignored him, prowling to the dish.

He hated cats. Grumpy, selfish assholes. Jake had no idea what inspired Sherry to keep one around.

The microwave dinged about half a second before his cell phone went off. Reaching into the pocket of his coat, Jake pulled out the phone. And frowned at the incoming call number being blocked. Only two people had this number. Or at least, only two people were _supposed_ to have this number.

He answered.

“Muller.”

 _“Hey Jakey, been a while._ ”

The tension that had been building in his shoulders uncoiled as he recognized the voice on the other end of the receiver. It was the contact who’d been feeding him reports of B.O.W. attacks the last year.

“What’s up with the blocked number?”

 _“Why- got you spooked?_ ”

Jake frowned, but didn’t dignify the question with an answer. It didn’t matter anyway, as his contact continued on seamlessly.

“ _Can’t take any chances. This job’s hot._ ”

He leaned against the short counter, popcorn forgotten, “What’s it pay?”

“ _Seven figures._ ”

The fuck. Jake felt his heart almost skip a beat, “You got my attention.”

_“Figured I would. It’s a bounty job, with a bonus on the wet side of shit. They want this guy, and bad.”_

Jake narrowed his eyes, “Who’s ‘they’?”

_“DSO.”_

The three letters were like a lead weight in his gut, “Why not send their own guys, then?”

 _“They have. But the guy we’re after doesn’t play by the books. And they’re willing to extend their net to the unconventional approaches._ ”

It wasn’t the first time he had taken a government contract under the table. But something about the amount of money didn’t rest easy with him, “Say I believe you, for now. Who’s the guy?”

 _“Jakey, your faith in me is a-fucking-stounding. But the guy’s a freelancer, not too different than you, actually. Normally he goes straight on his jobs- a lot of B.O.W. work, rescuing hostages, all that boy scout shit. Busted a few times for gun running, but nothing major or noticeable. Until he decided to bail mid-op in the middle of a contract with, you guessed it-_ “

“DSO.”

_“Bingo. And now the DSO’s out for blood.”_

“What was the job?”

_“Intel, from the looks of it. I don’t have a lot of specifics other than they want the merc, but more than that, they want whatever the merc’s carrying. Should be a few files. Research shit. Nothing hot. What do you say, Jakey? You up for a game of hide and seek?”_

It sounded too easy: find some asshole, bring him in, collect bank. And in Jake’s experience, if it sounded too easy, it was. And his instincts were practically screaming at him to turn this down. Still…

“How much is the bounty?”

 _“Four mil. Plus travel expenses covered._ ”

“Fuck.”

 _“Pays to work for Uncle Sammy, don’t it?_ ”

“This guy’s trained?”

 _“Yeah, ex-military something or other. Nothing you can’t handle._ ”

“What’s the research?”

He could practically hear his contact grinning over the phone- anything Jake signed on for gave him a nice finder’s fee, after all- “ _Genetics. A little bird’s been chirping about viral work. Dangerous shit, in the wrong hands._ ”

Jake closed his eyes and pinched the bridge of his nose, taking a deep breath. Well, there went any chance of turning it down. He shook his head and let out a sharp chuckle, “Where we going?”

_“There’s the Jakey I know and love. Bumfucknowhere, Russia. Your flight’s booked and leaving in an hour. Passport and travel documents in the usual spot. Make contact when you land.”_

He looked around the apartment with the barest hint of a frown. He’d be leaving now, then. “Alright.”

“ _Remember, 10% finder’s fee, Jakey._ ”

“Eight.”

_“Fifteen.”_

“Eight.”

 _“Fuck me, fine. Nine._ ”

“Deal.”

Less than a minute later, the lights were turned off in Sherry’s apartment, her ugly cat was fed, and a black-clad man was sliding down a fire escape.

\--

WASHINGTON D.C.  
UNITED STATES OF AMERICA  
23 DECEMBER 2013

It was a groggy next morning as Sherry stumbled from her bed to the kitchen, mechanically going through the motions of starting breakfast. Coffee was put into a filter, and as she went to throw some leftover pizza in the microwave, she frowned at the presence of a bag of unopened popcorn inside. Had she made popcorn? Whatever, it was too early. She switched it for the pizza, throwing the popcorn in the trash and starting up the microwave.

Sherry was about to refill Winston’s dish, when she noticed that he already had a half-eaten can of Fancy Feast available. That, if nothing else, made a smile break out on her face. She’d been trying to get Winston on a kitty diet after the veterinarian had suggested he was overweight. Looks like her cat’s appetite was finally slowing down to match the restricted food.

“Way to go Winston,” Sherry said, lifting her mug of coffee up in a salute. Winston looked at her in that aloof, judgmental way of his. As always.

Grumpy ass.

The microwave dinged about a half second before her cell phone went off. Rubbing the sleep from her eyes, Sherry set down the mug and looked at the incoming call screen.

She opened it, clearing her throat, “Birkin here.”

 _“Good morning, Agent Birkin. I trust you’ve missed my call last evening_?”

Shit. Sherry winced, “Sorry. It…was a late night.”

“ _I anticipated as much, which is why I thought a morning call would be sufficient,_ ” the cool, professional tone Hunnigan had on the phone gained a note of enthusiasm, “ _Your assignment’s been officially approved, Agent Birkin. Take the rest of the day to look over your intel, and your flight leaves tonight. Service weapons will be available at the departure point._ ”

Suddenly awake, Sherry stood up straighter from the counter, “Right. Thank you, sir.”

 _“Like I told you earlier, Agent Birkin. Thank me after you’ve completed your assignment. Your point of contact’s information is available in the files-_ “

“You mean Leon?”

Almost immediately, the enthusiastic note left Hunnigan’s tone, and her words were cool, _“Agent Kennedy is on an indefinite suspension at the moment. Your primary point of contact will be myself until we find his replacement for the mission._ ”

Sherry’s eyes widened, it had only been a little over twenty four hours since they had been taken _off_ suspension, “What-?”

“ _If you want a full disclosure, Agent Birkin, I recommend contacting Agent Kennedy. As it stands, good luck, and we’ll talk after you’ve arrived at your destination._ ”

She swallowed, “Yes, sir.”

 _“Good hunting, Agent Birkin._ ”

The line went dead.

Sherry dropped the phone from her ear, before muttering to herself, “What the hell, Leon?”

\--

“I trust you don’t need me to tell you how bad this looks,” Hunnigan said crisply as she tossed a file onto the desk that rested between them.

Leon stared, before reaching for the file and opening it, “Shit.”

“An understatement.”

The file held grainy photos, obviously taken from surveillance footage. In them, Leon was…fraternizing with the enemy. The pair in the photo had somehow managed to be precisely angled so the camera would undeniably catch both their profiles. Clear, undisputable profiles.

“I could tell you it’s not what it looks like…”

“Don’t bother,” Hunnigan sighed, tapping an expensive ballpoint pen against her lower lip in thought, “It’s already cleared USSS. They’re having a field day with this.”

“Damn it, Ada,” Leon muttered, closing the file and cradling his chin in his hand.

“While I typically am not involved with the…private lives of my agents,” she arched a brow, stilling the tapping of the pen against her lip, “I am asked to intervene when dalliances could compromise national security.”

“It’s not like that.”

“I don’t think that’s relevant, Leon. She’s a wanted fugitive. One knee deep in the events of Langshian-“

“We cleared her on that, remember? That was Carla Radames-“

“She was still involved with Simmons. She was still in Langshian. That’s all the committee needs to know to assume you’re compromised, Leon,” Hunnigan leaned forward, rubbing her temples, “And it’s also starting to look like the two of you are common denominators.”

Leon frowned, anger leaking into his tone, “What do you mean.”

She shook her head, ticking numbers off on her fingers, “Tall Oaks. The president’s death. Langshian. Simmons. The C-Virus. They’re all potential nails in the coffin for your career.”

“Take my badge then. If that’s all it’s worth.”

She glared at him over the frames of her glasses, “Don’t start. You have no idea how hard I worked to get you back on active duty, Leon. And this-“ she gestured to the incriminating photos, “-just set me ten steps back not only on your clearance, but also on interdepartmental affairs.”

He looked ready to fire back, but swallowed it down, “Whatever’s going on between me and Ada, it’s strictly personal. I haven’t compromised any intel.”

Hunnigan took a labored breath through her nostrils, “For what it’s worth, I believe you. If anything, this fills in a few gaps I’ve had regarding the Los Illuminados incident,” Hunnigan folded her hands over her chest, “But it doesn’t matter what I believe. What USSS sees is an agent, with a less than reputable reputation following the Tall Oaks and Langshian incidents, in contact with a high profile fugitive who has connections to Umbrella and presumably Neo-Umbrella, less than 100 yards from the current president and most heads of internal security departments.”

Leon snorted, “So it’s bad.”

Hunnigan sent him a sympathetic look. And that’s when reality sunk in for him. Hunnigan didn’t _do_ sympathy, “You’re on lock down,” she winced, “And internal affairs is getting involved.”

“Shit.”

“Suspension without pay, to be reinstated pending a full background check, a psychological evaluation, and a six month probationary period. You’re also pulled off of Agent Birkin’s case.”

That surprised him, “Sherry’s on assignment?”

Hunnigan nodded, “Long-term. You are not to have contact with her at all until she returns stateside-“

“What kind of assignment is this-“

“ _Leon,”_ the protest died on his tongue, “For both your sakes. Agent Birkin is on thin ice with administration as it is, involving you on her assignment is enough for them to suspend her indefinitely too.”

He sat back, letting the information sink in. Leon frowned, “Something’s not right with this.”

Hunnigan nodded, “The timing is more than coincidence,” she shook her head, “I’ll do what I can to speed up the process, but for now, my hands are tied. Turn in your badge and service weapon downstairs,” a grim sort of humor filled her expression for a second, “I imagine there’s some forms for you to file as well.”

Leon shook his head in disbelief, “At least one thing’s consistent here.”

She offered that sympathetic smile again, “Dismissed, Agent Kennedy.”

He inclined his head, rubbing the back of his neck as he stood and walked out the door. As soon as he passed the threshold of Hunnigan’s office, a vibration signaled off in his jacket pocket. Frowning, Leon retrieved his phone and saw a text message from a blocked number:

_Sorry, handsome. Need you right where you are. –A_

He swore.

“What kind of game are you playing this time, Ada?”

\--

Three cups of coffee, an hour of packing, arranging a cat sitter, and a drive to the airport later, Sherry was sitting in a private plane on her way to Russia, and about a fourth of the way through the files Hunnigan had transferred to her computer. Beside her teacup of airline Earl Grey, a legal notepad rested next to her laptop, with a mess of notes scrawled across it.

Sherry took a sip as she scrolled through the outline of her mission.

In short, someone had broken into a remote research base, taken out the head researcher, and disappeared with copies of most of the data. Her stomach had twisted when she reviewed the description of the facility:

Remote, situated in the Altai Mountain range and only accessible by helicopter.  
Government contracted.  
Research and Development oriented, with an emphasis on genetics and virology.  
Gamma facility of HelixGen.

She had seen too much to believe in coincidences, and already Sherry had a sinking suspicion of what research and development Gamma facility was responsible for: the production and refinement of the Nivans vaccine. The variables made sense: remote access provided tight security while the vaccine went through the clinical trials, the murder of the head researcher and subsequent copying of the databanks would halt the progress of the clinical trials long enough for the copied data to be sold on the black market to other pharmaceutical companies, and the agent the DSO decided to send was one who was familiar with the vaccine and genetics research.

So she was on a timeline. Sherry pushed down the frustration forming in her gut, being upset wouldn’t change the situation: someone had broken in to Research Gamma, murdered the head researcher, and compromised the public marketing of the vaccine. This had bloodthirsty pharmaceutical power play written all over it. And all she could do to stop it is find the mercenary, apprehend him, and retrieve the stolen research for HelixGen.

Easy. Right.

She scrolled down to where she had bookmarked the assumed culprit’s information:

William Coen. Former Marine. Court-martialed, and faked his death on the way to his execution. Afterwards went by the alias of Enrico Marquez, and relocated to various Central American countries, never staying longer than two years in any residence. Worked as a freelance mercenary, though judging from the dossier, nothing especially insidious. No history of involvement with corporate espionage. No regular contractors. No arrest record, aside from his court-martial.

Sherry frowned, scrolling down to the available picture of him- a mug shot from his Marine days.

The first word that popped into her mind was _intense._ Staring straight into the camera, his dark eyes managed to be intimidating despite the situation he was found in. His combed back, long dark hair seemed at odds with his position as a Marine, as did the tattoo that spanned the entire length of his arm. Sherry enlarged the image, making out the words “Mother Love”, and taking a note of it. Tattoos were the easiest ways to identify subjects.

He was handsome, but dangerous. And he looked like someone who would be capable of murder. Not that appearances meant much. Simmons had worn a bolo tie.

Sherry shook her head, turning her attention back to the photo. She took note of the dog tags around his neck—a potential sentimental token that could be used to identify him later.

And despite the fact that she was on a tight deadline, her fugitive was wanted for murder and faking his own death, and she was about to be thrown right back into the deadly subterfuge of corporate competition, it felt…good. To be taking detailed notes of a man’s appearance. To be making mental connections between HelixGen and their trial runs. To be proactive, and _useful._ To get out from behind the desk and back out into the field. Already she could feel the restlessness from the last few months leave her, being gradually replaced with sharp focus and concentration.

She wasn’t Sherry the office worker. She was Agent Birkin. And it felt right, like slipping a favorite, comfortable coat back on.

She could do this.

Sherry took another sip of tea, and moved to her next bookmark in the dossier: the head researcher.

Rebecca Chambers. And her list of recommendations and honors was intimidating, to say the least. A doctorate at eighteen. Enlistment into S.T.A.R.S. Two more doctorates after that. She could have been working anywhere she wanted, yet she chose a remote research facility in the middle of nowhere. Based on her picture, she seemed welcoming, and there wasn’t the cold, removed look in her eyes that Sherry had seen in the framed portraits of the Umbrella facilities. Rebecca Chambers seemed… _happy._  

Sherry gave a contemplative hum at the dates of her enlistment in the S.T.A.R.S. program. She had to have been involved around the time of the Raccoon City incident. Her stomach twisted again. It couldn’t have been coincidence that Sherry was assigned to solve this woman’s murder. Too many connections were being made.

She tapped the end of her pencil against the legal document pad. Or maybe Chambers, having personally seen the hells of viral weaponry, had decided to dedicate her work to preventing it by developing a vaccine with HelixGen. It looked like her employment contract had only been conditional upon the project- she was a temporary lead, not a staple employee of the pharmaceutical company. Judging from her previous contracts, Chambers had spent time in the labs for similar endeavors. Admiration for the woman flared within Sherry- this was someone who had done her best to change things, to stop people like Umbrella. She wasn’t unlike Leon or Claire.

“I’ll find your killer, I promise,” Sherry muttered, tabbing back to the bookmark on Coen. She stared at his mug shot, leaning forward and cradling her face in her hand. Only one question remained.

“Why would you kill Rebecca Chambers?”

It would have been easy enough, to find a gap in the lab schedule’s rotation to steal the research data-- Gamma was understaffed. But he had shown up when she was on duty. He had put a bullet in her skull. The obvious answer was that he wanted to stop the production of the vaccination, but why? Chambers wasn’t attached to HelixGen. If he was employed by a rival company, it would have been cleaner to just buy her out from HelixGen. No doubt she’d go where the labs were, if it meant putting the vaccine into production.

It didn’t help that crime scene photos of Chambers’ murder had been classified. Not that it really mattered, in the scope of things. Sherry wasn’t here as a detective, she was here as an apprehending agent.

Still, something kept snagging her thought process as she read files for both Coen and Chambers, almost as if something wasn’t adding up. Like something was missing.

Deciding to let the intel marinate before she tried to deconstruct it, Sherry tabbed down to the remainder of the files. Most of it was about the facility itself- resources, personnel, funding, and other information that seemed irrelevant now but might come in use later. That, she skimmed for now, going down further to get more information on the man she was pursuing.

Coen, going under the alias of Anton Udinov, had last been spotted in the nearby town of Gorod not far from the Kazakhstan border of the Belukha mountain summit, an estimated eight or nine miles from the research facility. The date of the sighting was less than three months ago. Sherry frowned, going back to the date of Chambers’ murder on her notepad. There was a six month difference between the events. Why would Coen stay close to the scene of the crime? As a mercenary, no doubt he had falsified travel papers.

Sherry ran a hand through her short hair. It didn’t make sense, but the town was a starting point, and where she was meeting an informant of Hunnigan’s before heading up to the research facility itself. From what the records indicated, she would have full access to Gamma’s security systems and the ability to interview the workers there. Maybe it would help, to first get some perspective what was missing and a personality profile on the guy—as it stood, Coen made next to no sense on paper.

Sherry flipped to a new sheet of legal paper, writing down a list of immediate objectives:

  1.       Interview Hunnigan’s informant
  2.       Light investigation of Gorod
  3.       Investigate Gamma’s databases
  4.       Review security footage and logs
  5.       Interview Gamma personnel
  6.       Thorough investigation of Gorod and surrounding townships
  7.       Margaritas



She nodded, clicking down on her pen. It was as good of a start as any.

\--

GOROD TOWNSHIP  
KAZAKHSTAN  
24 DECEMBER 2013

Gorod was a small town, and its landing pad was nonexistent. Originally an outpost for illegal poachers, the town had since transformed into a combination of a resort town and…less conspicuous outpost for illegal poachers. This time of year, it boasted several supply stores for outdoor enthusiasts: ski rentals, snow shoes, sleds, snowmobiling, and other recreational activities.

Lodges and taverns peppered the small streets as well. The location was remote, but ideal for tourists, and if groups of hunters were more common than not, people tended to look the other way. The tourist angle was something Sherry hoped to use to her advantage to cover the arrival of a DSO agent. While most were compliant at the sight of a badge, their answers were almost entirely hedged.

Plus, she assumed anonymity was helpful when trying to hunt down a wanted criminal.

The plane had landed about ten miles out of town, and the rest of the distance had been traveled via snowmobile. When Sherry had finally arrived, she was freezing and ready to find the inn where Hunnigan had made arrangements for her to stay. Taking off her helmet, Sherry casually parked her snowmobile next to the countless others outside the Sokrytiye Inn, exhaling as she looked at the door. The place seemed welcoming enough, with log furnishing that gave the illusion of rustic living. Standard fare for a tourist. She shouldered her bags, only two, and walked in.

“Dobro pozhalovat, odna minuta pozhalujsta,” the innkeeper muttered, busy with some paperwork in front of her.

Sherry closed her eyes and took a deep breath. Her Russian was rusty, but hopefully it would suffice enough to maintain her cover, “Nichevo strashnava.”

The woman, heavy-set and somewhere around fifty, looked up from her paperwork and rose an eyebrow, “Your accent is terrible,” she said easily enough, though a hint of a smile tugged at the corner of her lip.

Sherry gave an apologetic smile, “Sorry, only been taking Russian for two years at Uni,” she said with a far more passable Canadian accent.

“Ah, you are the student researcher, then? For…” the inn’s administrator waved her hand in a circle as she tried to remember, “What was it. Rocks?”

Sherry continued to smile, reshouldering her bag, “Geology, yeah. I believe my thesis advisor called ahead to secure a reservation?”

“You believe correct,” the woman stated easily, withdrawing a stack of papers from the desk, “Fill these out. And I’ll need to see identification. Otherwise the room’s been paid for…” she looked onto her computer, pressing a few buttons, “Four weeks it looks like. Though I understand you will be gone for most of it?”

Sherry nodded, beginning to fill out the forms with her cover’s information. Alicia Sanders. Second year graduate student at the University of Ontario. Geology major and teaching assistant. Canadian. 27 years old, “That’s right, I’m going to spend most of my time in the field collecting some samples in the mountains.”

The woman snorted, “Too bad you didn’t get here four months earlier. It’s cold this time of year in the mountains, you know.”

She laughed, dotting her final i and crossing her final t, “Unfortunately, I decided to study the effects of snow erosion,” she handed the forms back to the desk worker, “I think I reconsidered my thesis project the second I started the snowmobile.”

The woman chuckled, placing a ring of keys on the counter, “You are in room four. The symbol matches the key fob. My name is Nadya. Let me know if you need assistance.”

“Actually,” Sherry said with a smile, “I was wondering if you know where a place called the Lozh Tavern was? My friend came here a few years ago and said the food was great.”

Nadya stared at her in disbelief, “Your friend has taste buds?”

“That’s what she keeps saying.”

Nadya shook her head, “It’s down the road, green sign. Though if I were you, I’d stick to the vodka and nothing else.”

\--

After unpacking and taking a quick shower, Sherry made the short walk to where she was designated to meet her contact for the assignment. Sure enough, a bright green sign marked the tavern, and sure enough, it looked like an establishment where one would only sample the vodka and not much else. Several snowmobiles were parked in front of the building, most of them having tie-downs containing animal hides. A poacher’s bar, then. Seemed suiting enough place to meet a DSO informant.

Sherry took a deep breath before entering the bar. As soon as the door opened, several heads swerved to get a good look. It didn’t take much to notice that about 95% of them were men, and the majority of them over forty. An old boy’s club, from the looks of it. And one unaccustomed to the tourists filtering in. Sherry straightened her posture, making a confident, slow walk towards the back tables of the place. She hadn’t received a physical description of the informant, only that she was to contact him here every Monday during her assignment.

 

From what she knew of the man, he was older and nomadic. And, like Coen, he was deeply embedded in the mercenary game. Hunnigan’s memo had said the informant specialized mainly in arms dealing, and had spent a few years in Central and South America before making his way through Western Europe and finally settling in the local area. If Coen had purchased illegal arms in the last ten years, Hunnigan had reason to believe the man she was meeting would have had a run in or two with him. Or at least would have a reference for another dealer. And, judging from the personal touch to the memo, Sherry had reason to believe that Hunnigan had made contact with this informant before.

Finding an empty seat, Sherry took it and calmly met the probing stares of the men sitting in the bar. Her last excursion of hunting down a mercenary had taught her that it was better to acknowledge it instead of shirk away. Eventually they’d ignore her and return to their own business, or challenge her.

And, desk duty or not for the last few months, Sherry was confident she could handle a challenge.

Seconds ticked by like hours, but finally the men turned their gazes back to their conversation partners or drinks. Sherry let out an imperceptible sigh of relief, before sitting back in her chair and pulling out a book from her canvas bag. The book, _The Old Man and the Sea,_ was one she had no interest in reading, but was instead the tell for the informant. Thumbing to a random page, Sherry tried as hard as she could to pretend she was invested in its contents.

Minutes ticked by. A half hour. And another. And Sherry caved and ordered a vodka somewhere in between the second and third hour she was stuck waiting. _The Old Man and the Sea_ even had a page or two dog-eared as she reluctantly began to read it out of nothing but sheer boredom.

Whoever her informant was, he wasn’t punctual.

Another vodka drink, and Sherry was about ready to leave. The day’s sun had faded into darkness, and she had been awake almost thirty hours. Sleep beckoned, and frustration at her contact’s no-show was beginning to outweigh her patient nature.

“Fifteen more minutes,” she muttered, staring out the window.

“That how long your old man has?” Came a guttural voice, and Sherry turned from the window and towards its source.

The man standing across from her was buried in several layers, with a ratty, hooded trench coat covering him from the top of his head until about mid-calve. A scarf was wrapped around the lower half of his face, showing only his eyes, which were a blue so light they looked almost opaque, and had deep creases framing them.

“You read Hemmingway?” Sherry asked cautiously, knowing his answer would determine whether this was her pre-established contact or not.

“Only _Farewell to Arms_ ,” he said, in a tone that could only be described as jovial, as he pulled out the chair opposite of her own and sat down. “Now, I understand you’ll be wanting to have a lil chat, yeah?”

Sherry nodded, reaching inside her parka for Coen’s photograph, “I need information on-“

“Ah ah ah,” the man cut off, brushing snow off his shoulders but, oddly enough, not removing any of his garments, “I’m starvin’. And I don’t do business on an empty stomach, you understand.”

Sherry repressed the surge of annoyance and put on her best professional face, waving down a server, “Of course.”

Her informant let out a dry wheeze of a chuckle as the server approached their table.

“Your order?” Asked the server blandly.

The informant looked directly at Sherry with his unnerving eyes and rose his eyebrows, “You buyin’?”

Sherry counted to three in her head, “Alright.”

“Heh! Lesse, I’ll have your best spirit, and some meat to go with it.”

“Steak?”

“Now that’s something. Let’s have it rare. I like it rare.”

“Da,” the server muttered, moving back towards the kitchen.

“Now,” muttered the man, placing his hands on the table, “Where were we?”

Sherry pressed her lips together in a thin line and pulled out Coen’s picture, sliding it across the table, “I need information on this man- William Coen.”

The informant didn’t even look at the picture, “Ne’er heard of him.”

She tried her best to smile. She really did, “You might know him by Enrico Marquez.”

“That so?” He folded his hands over his stomach, leaning back in his chair, “What’s it worth to you?”

Sherry scowled, “I understood that you were compensated for your information before the meeting.”

“I understood that got you a meeting, stranger.”

She exhaled, “Fine. Name your price.”

“I take gold, mostly. Heh. Yes, gold is a fair trade.”

“What about American currency.”

“Not enough cash for that,” the informant continued, cracking his neck from side to side. Miraculously, the movement didn’t seem to shift the protective garments he was wearing on his head. He sent her a speculative look, “Though I suppose exceptions can be made. Last deal I had with an American ended up… lucrative enough.” He let out that dry chuckle again, as if making a joke only he could understand, “Ten thousand, for your basic information.”

Sherry rose an eyebrow, “And what would get me…non-basic information?”

His eyes crinkled, so she could only imagine he was smiling beneath his scarf, “Me liking you, naturally.”

She stared at him, looking for tells. Anything that remotely proved this man wasn’t legitimate, and she would be walking out the door and phoning Hunnigan faster than he could say “the sun also rises”. While her ability to read body language wasn’t impeccable, at the moment she had no reason to disbelieve that this man was what he claimed.

“We’ll do it your way and start at the basics, then. I’ll see to it that ten thousand dollars is transferred to your account.”

“Good, good. Now. Whad do you want for it?”

“Tell me what you know about the man in the photograph.”

The informant finally leaned forward, and stared at the image. He gave a low whistle, “Interesting fella, you’ve decided to find.”

Sherry folded her hands in front of her on the table, patiently waited for an elaboration.

“Gotta confess, wasn’t expecting _him_ to be the man you’re all after. Clean work, he does.”

“So you do know him.”

“Could say that. Could say I’ve sold the lad a gun or three. Over time,” he rolled his shoulders, “Bit of a disappointment, I must say. Never bought the more… _imaginative_ of my stock.”

Sherry made a mental note to investigate that particular claim later.

“But not a man to make friends. Kept to himself, kept his name off most grids,” the informant rubbed his forehead, as if trying to recall a memory. Or making a show of recalling a memory, “Good shot though. Hit every target at my range.”

“A marksman?”

“You could say something along those lines, yeah.”

Sherry frowned, so far the informant had offered nothing the files didn’t state already, “What’s he after?”

“ _That_ lad? Easy enough,” the informant waved the picture dismissively, before tossing it back in front of her, “ _That_ lad wants him a ticket home.”

“To the US?”

“That’s right. Can you blame him? Nasty business, he got himself roped into,” again his eyes crinkled, and Sherry got the distinct impression she was being toyed with- not unlike a cat playing with a mouse. That was fine. He could get his entertainment from her ignorance, as long as he gave her enough information to make it worthwhile.

“I assume you’re talking about the court martial?”

“Allegedly,” he said with another chuckle, “But he follows the rules, that one. And those who follow the rules don’t put their partners in compromised positions.”

A thrill of excitement hit Sherry at the statement, “He has a conspirator?”

“Once, yeah.”

“Who?”

The informant clucked his tongue against his teeth, “That’d be, ah, information of the _non-basic_ variety.”

Sherry frowned, and having hit a temporary brick wall, decided to redirect the conversation, “How well do you know him?”

“As much as I know any paying customer.”

“That would be…?”

He snorted, “Well enough to make cash off em, but not well enough to sell them out. Mercenaries are a, ah, _sensitive_ bunch.”

She nodded, tapping her fingers against the table as she thought, “I’m guessing it wouldn’t make a difference to you if I said your information would save thousands if not millions of lives?”

“You’d be guessin’ correctly,” he said, “Only persuasion I take is cash. And a lot of it.”

She suspected as much, “How much do you need to talk about his partner?”

The informant leaned forward, “What are you offerin’?”

“I’ll try and come up with some gold for you, our next meeting.”

“How much?”

Sherry did the math quickly in her head, “Ten ounces.”

“Ahh, a fine price,” the informant nodded, about to say something when the server unceremoniously dropped the steak in front of him.

Sherry looked at it skeptically- the meat was bloody, but somehow also managed to be gray in some places, “I wouldn’t eat that.”

“Strong stomach,” he said, and though he made no move towards the plate, his fingers wrapped around the hilt of a steak knife, “I accept your terms, stranger. Bring me gold next week, and I’ll give you something of more, heh, _substance_.”

“Okay,” she said, knowing that Hunnigan was going to reprimand her for the mission’s already extravagant finances.

“A bargain struck then,” the informant muttered, grabbing a fork as well, “Now if you don’t mind, I’d prefer to be left to my meal alone.”

An odd request, but one Sherry didn’t mind upholding if it cemented a good working relationship for the rest of the assignment, “Alright. I appreciate the cooperation, Mr…?”

He chuckled, driving the steak knife deep into the meat. The plate rattled on the table, but Sherry scarcely blinked. “You can call me Merchant, stranger. And I suspect we’ll be seeing more of each other in the future.”

“Does that mean you like me?”

“Let’s just say you remind me of someone.”

Sherry shrugged, standing up and leaving a few tenge on the table to cover his meal, “I’ll take it. Same time next week?”

“Fine by me, and stranger?”

Sherry paused from zipping up her parka, “Yes?”

“Remember the gold, or it’ll be a short meeting.”

Sherry nodded, and as she started to leave, tried to convince herself that it was the poor lighting that gave the Merchant’s eyes that red glow.


End file.
